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ANTII0ICTGY 

NEWSPAPER VERSE 

FOR 1924 
Sixth Annual Issue 



Edited by 

FRANKLIN PIERRE DAVIS. 



Enid, Oklahoma. 

FEANK P. DAVIS, PUBLISHER 
MCMXXV, 



Copyright: 1925 
Frank P. Davis 



TO 

SCOTTIE MCKENZIE FRASIEE 

"Wherever your feet may wander, 

Wherever your fancies stray, 
The paths that you walk are golden, 
For there is the sunshine way." 



INTRODUCTION 

The year just passing has been a tranquil and 
thoughtful one for the American people as shown 
by the National barometer newspaper verse. 
There have been but few events that disturbed 
the nation. More poems of high quality appeared 
than in any year since this work was first pub- 
lished. Many of these poems compare favorably 
with the best that appeared in any publication, 
and show that the poet who sings for the pleasure 
of the song, as all newspaper poets must, often 
produces a quality of work that is entitled to live. 

Poems on the passing of Woodrow Wilson nat- 
urally led in the number of those on current 
events. These came from all parts of the country, 
showing that the death of the war president was 
felt throughout the land. While there were not 
near so many poems on the death of former Presi- 
dent Wilson as there were on President Harding 
in the previous year, many of the former were 
of high quality. 

A subject of considerable importance in the 
east, and especially in Maryland was the Shot 
Tower at Baltimore. So many poems on this 
theme appeared that it was deemed of sufficient 
importance to secure information regarding all 
this interest in the Shot Tower. Shot Towers are 
not a subject of common conversation in Okla- 
homa, although most of our esteemed citizens are 
not unfamiliar with the workings of the self- 
feeding pistol and may be considered fairly good 
shots in cases of emergency. The following from 



an editorial in The Circle, a journal of verse, pub- 
lished in Baltimore, throws some light on the Shot 
Tower excitement : 

"Baltimore for the last two months has 
been torn from root to illimitable spaces by 
the prospect of having one of its most val- 
uable landmarks razed! Its Shot Tower, 
builded in 1839, has long been one of the mag- 
nets of interest for visitors to the city. Mod- 
eled after the old world plan of similar tow- 
ers, it is now the only one left in the world. 
This must give it value for all Americans/' 

The Baltimore newspapers put on a Shot 
Tower poetry contest. The first prizes (there 
were two first prizes!) went to William James 
Price, editor of Interludes, a poetry journal, and 
Gay Walton Banks, Society Editor of the Balti- 
more News. Both of these poems appear in this 
work. Through the interest aroused by these con- 
tests the people rallied to the call of the commit- 
tee and the necessary funds were raised to save 
the Shot Tower to Baltimore, at a time when the 
private owners had decreed the tower should be 
razed. 

The idea of newspapers offering cash prizes 
for poems on subjects of local importance would 
be an excellent one to arouse public interest in 
any civic improvement plan. 

There were not nearly so many poems pub- 
lished in the newspapers in 1924 as in the last four 
or five years.* Very few newspapers pay for verse, 
hence newspaper poetry is not written for gain, 
but to express the writer's reaction to current 
events, or because of the inherent urge to sing 
his song. 

The death of the son of President Coolidge 
6 



touched the sympathies of the people of all parts 
of the country, and many were the poems of sym- 
pathy that were published. 

As usual there were a number of poems to 
the memory of former President Roosevelt. 

Among the interesting things gleaned from 
reading many thousands of newspaper poems is 
the fact that no frivolous or trivial poems come 
from the State of Utah. All poems that I have 
received from this state have been of a serious 
and generally of a religious trend. 

More poems using flowers as a theme appeared 
than on any other subject. 

It was interesting to note that so many men 
contributed verse to the newspapers this year. 
Lawyers and the heads of big business firms led 
among the men who turned to verse to find ex- 
pression. 

Quite a number of unusual and long-forgotten 
themes appeared. Those of us who lived in the 
lumber wagon days will remember: 

"Her What-Not made of spools and picture cord, 
With two light shelves of slightly warping wood; 
Her treasures still upon them." 

And, then, there was the water-witch, who 
could take a forked stick and find the proper place 
to dig a well to be sure of finding water : 

"Give him a forked stick, cherry or sweet-apple, 
And he can show you where the ground waters hide." 

In those other days we sang a song of over the 
hills to the poorhouse; now: 

"The wild rose blooms in its beauty rare 
Beside the poorhouse road/' 



As boys, following the shadow of Captain 
Kidd: 

"We buried our fortunes of marbles and shot 

And a rusty revolver and glass 
In a box which has long ago fallen apart 
Beneath the green roots of the grass." 

Franklyn Pierre Davis. 



THE TOWN OF GREEN WINDOWS. 

And why they painted their shutters green 
Is more than a fellow could tell 

Perhaps it's hard for their ears to hear 

The growl of the coal-mine hell, 
For their eyes to see the wallowing 'dust 

For their faces to feel the glare, 
The hard and bitter tears of the earth 

That flow from the tipples there. 

But they went and bought them a can and brush 

And thought of the years at home . . . 
When a stone-cut road led over the plain 

To the splendor of ancient Rome, 
To the vines and waters and olive trees 

To the marble feet of a saint: 
And here on our prairie they found their own B 

In a quart of the bright green paint. 

It's splintered and dusty, but young of heart, 

This town by the railroad line; 
Where the men are dark and the yards are small 

And the bare little windows shine, 
Where the brown-eyed women look from the doors 

And see what there is to be seen 
What music must have been in their souls 

When they painted their windows green! 
i 

When they brushed the paint on their shutters . . . 
And the color was always green. 

The Cedar Rapids Gazette. MacKinlay Kantor. 



ILLUMINATION. 

When I am dead, what I have felt so long 
My soul shall know in clearer, purer light: 

That where I loathed and hated, I was wrong; 
That where I 'loved and pitied, I was right. 

The American H'ebrew. Arthur Guiterman. 



THE OLD TRAPPEE'S TALE. 

In the storm she comes, a part of the gale 

Aye, lad, a terrible tale! 

Ye've heard of the phantom White Canoe? 

Twenty dead men are the crew 

Twenty dead men missing one! 

They're needing another paddler, son! 

In the night she comes, in a swirl of snow; 

Low, low, she's riding low. 

The bowman grins as he peers ahead. 

The naked tree-tops crouch in dread. 

Ye must close your eyes ; ye must close your ears ; 

For a dead man watches, a dead man steers, 

And if ye look on that craft again, 

Ye're lost to the sight of living men! 

It's long since I heard that devil's crew. 
Aye, lad, I was young as you! 
To the North they rode, in a shroud of black, 
Who rides to the North may never come back. 

They sang a stave of a battle song, 

Wild and riotous, free and strong. 

My pulses stirred; my blood was fire. 

The chorus mounted high and higher! 

There's one leans out and over the bow, 

Far, far. I can see him now! 

We're eye to eye! Will I ride? Will I ride? 

There's an empty seat on the nearer side ! 

A shout of laughter; a grip; a pull! 

God! God! The thwarts are 



The New York Times. Vilda Sauvage Owens. 



MY LITTLE TOWN. 

"She's not been back for many a year/' 
They say; they never know I'm near. 
For where my wistful dreaming goes 
No shadow ever shows. 



10 



I walk the quiet streets and see 
No change with all the years. For me, 
The elms branch still above our lawn 
And not a friend is gone. 

"She's not been back/' they say, nor look 
Where sunlight dances on the brook. 
In peaceful rooms they never see 
The child I used to be. 

Perhaps at dusk the still streets know; 
They, too, remember long ago. 
Perhaps they guess, since I am there, 
How yearningly I care. 

But I shall never speed across 
The long, long miles, to learn of loss, 
To find the old town new and strange 
For me it does not change. 

The New York Times. Hilda Morris. 



VASES. 

Two vases stood on the Shelf of Life, 

As Love came by to look; 
One was of priceless cloisonne, 
The other of solid common clay. 

Which do you think Love took? 

He took them both from the Shelf of Life; 

He took them both with a smile; 
He clasped them both with his finger tips, 
And touched them both with caressing lips, 

And held them both for a while. 

From tired hands Love let them fall, 

And never a word was spoken. 
One was of priceless cloisonne, 
The other of solid common clay. 

Which do you think was broken? 

The New York Sun. Nan Terrell Reed. 

11 



EARTH MAGIC. 

Fernando's eyes stare past you gray as rain, 
His body's limber as a bough and straight. 

You speak to him, he never seems to hear, 
And then he answers you a minute late. 

His gift his father had the trick before him 
Makes him a 'person in the country-side. 

Give him a forked stick, cherry or sweet apple, 
And he can show you where ground waters 
hide. 

He lurches over our green hills and holds 
A fresh branch in his grimy, vise-shut fists, 

The fork straight up until water's near, 
Then in his grasp its very fibre twists. 

The high point swoops Fernando stops and 
waits, 

Turns his stick up again and holds it fast ! 
And when it answers to the water's call, 

He nods and grins his weasel grin at last. 

"Your spring's right here," he says, "some eight 

foot down, 

I make it, though I ain't so good on knowin* 
The depth as father. He could always tell, 
But you dig here, and keep right on a-goinV 

Magic so old, so simple, and so strange! 

To be the medium between a spring 
Deep underground and a bough's love of it 

Truth has sometimes an odd and pagan ring. 

And why Fernando? Scarce articulate 

As brooks and windy branches, one with these 

He speaks an older language when he tells 
The secrets he and earth know and the trees. 

The New York Sun. Helen Ives Gilchrist, 

12 



SENTENCE AT PAETING. 

So strange was our farewell to each ot&er; 

A ]i<?ht kiss only, and a lighter embrace; 
The flip of a coin were not more careless; 

Tomorrow, or never, to see your face. 

Eyes, drinking deep against the hunger 
Of the lone, work-drunken days to come, 

Read, all unwillingly, their warrant 
The soul betrays when the voice is dumb. 

A laush, and a jest, and a light caressing- 
So easy it was, after all. to Tpart; 

If this be fate, then meet it bravely 
With dust on the lips and ice in the heart. 

The American Hebrew. Mabel J. Bourquin. 



A BUGLE AT BELLEAIL 
June 6, 1918. 

(They are talking of placing a bugler permanently at ^ Bel- 
ief u "Wood to sound U.ps every evening in honor of the Americans 
who fell there.) 

A bugle blows at Belleau; sweet and clear the 

notes go winging 
Through thickets thronged with memories; 

down pathways dense with dreams. 
Far-flung, the echoes mingle with the village ves- 
pers ringing, 

Where faint within the cottage doors a twilight 
candle gleams. 

In humble homes the peasant folk the story are 

retelling 
Of days when war mad bugles blew, and bells 

forgot to toll. 
Theirs is the understanding of the message in 

this knelling 

Bugles for soldiers* spirits and a church bell 
for their soul. 

The Chicago Tribune. Louis of the Lafayette. 

13 



ANCHORAGE. 

The ship that sails unballasted 

May travel fast and far, 
But gusty winds may dip her sheets 

When tacking round the bar. 
I'm weighted down, you say, with care, 

And small hands hold me fast? 
Then thank God for the ballasting 

That helps me meet the blast! 

The gay white ships go sailing forth 

So light and free to roam, 
But one gray bark with thin, torn sails 

Is anchored close at home. 
You say I'm burdened by my tasks 

Keeping a hearth fire warm? 
Then thank God for the anchorage 

That helps me ride the storm! 

The New York Sun. Clarissa Brooks Jenks. 



OLD AGE IN POVERTY. 

Hold high the torch of our love, dear, 

If it ever fails, 
The way is steep and narrow 

No other light avails. 

Feed the flame of our love, dear, 

With tenderness and care; 
The night is cold and dismal 

Without its warmth to share. 

Look! Green fields lie just ahead 

Lit by a strange new sun* 
0, there indeed we shall be rich, 

O, there we shall be young. 

My step grows light, your arm grows strong, 

The fields are nearly won. 
We are not poor, we are not old, 

Lo! Our torch, the sun! 

The Mill Valley Record. C. D. Dam 

14 



OUT OF THE JADE OF THE SEA. 

Out of the jade of the sea they came 

In nets that gleamed in the sun, 
Gleamed with the waters of the deep 
Diamonds that shine and pearls that weep 
Out of the jade with a sea-born splash 
And onto the decks in a silver flash 

Quivering fins and beating tails! 
Out of the jade of the sea they came 
Gasping in air like the hunted game 

To dart no more in the green sea trails 
No more the lure of the racing tides. . . . 
Out of the jade they came to beat 
A turn-turn knell to their life's retreat; 
A shower of scales in a silvered slime, 
With tails that beat in rhythmic time, 
Out of the jade they came to die 
Below the wheeling sea-gull's cry 

Out of the deep and into the sun 

The fisherman cried, "The salmon run! 
The salmon run, a million head 
With their bellies fat and their gills blood-red 
Go for the nets! We're rich as Hell! 
(It's damn those fish and the way they smell!)" 
Out of the jade of the sea they came 

In nets that gleamed in the sun, 
Onto the decks in a silver flame 
(That an old tin can might bear their name), 
Out of the jade of the sea they came 

In nets that gleamed in the sun. 

The Argus. Helen Emma Maring. 



HUDDLESTUN'S BRIDGE. 

Oh! Captain Kidd was a terrible blade 

And the pirate La Fitte was cruel, 
The men who scoured the seven seas 

Have buried full many a jewel. . . . 
But I sing of the pirates who tunnelled a hole 

When they planted their spoils in the ridge 
Of the mellowing mound which follows the creek, 

In the shadow of Huddlestun's Bridge. 

15 



And they didn't have knives or earrings of gold 

Their breeches were never of silk, 
And their slim young bodies were not of bronze, 

But whiter than foaming milk; 
Yet the flag that flew from their oaken staff 

Was fearsome as Death and as harsh 
When they heaped the earth, and buried a box 

In the tangle of Huddlestun's Marsh. 

The Fisher boys were the wickedest gang 

Who ever stole cherries or corn. 
They plotted and planned and schemed in the 
woods ; 

Their cry of alarm was a horn 
Which somebody used for summoning cows, 

In the days before Andy and Bill 
Ard Kennie and Ralph and the rest of the boys 

Cursed the pasture by Huddlestun's HilL 

We buried our fortune of marbles and shot 

And a rusty revolver and glass, 
In a box which has long ago fallen apart 

Beneath the green roots of the grass 
But we swore on our laths that we never would 
tell 

Why we laid the great treasure away, 
And there hasn't a one of us broken the vow 

Though some are bald-headed, or gray. . . . 

Oh, the scoundrels who shuddered the Spanish 
Main 

Were fierce-eyed villains, I know; 
They were the shadows we followed their deeds 

Had pointed the way we should go. 
Some of the Fisher boys sleep on the hill 

And though spirits are frail and are li^ht 
I'm sure they are guarding by Huddlestun's 
Bridge 

The treasure we buried that night 

MacKinlay Kantor. 
The Davenport Daily Times. 



16 



THE WHAT-NOT. 

I noticed it before the sale began: 

Her what-not, made of spools and picture cord, 
With two light shelves of slightly warping 
board ; 

Her treasure still upon them . . shells, a fan 

Carved out of one pine stick, some sailor-man 
Had given her; a little childish hoard 
Of "lucky-stones" in blue bead-baskets stored^; 

And last, a blown-glass cup inscribed "To Ann." 

My memory evoked the sitting room 

Where it had huner against the flowered wall 
Above her sewing table ; cameo-fine 

I saw Ann, too ; rose-silver in the gloom 
Of Summer twilights that T still recall, 
A bid of fifty cents ... the "lot" was mine! 

The New York Times. May Folwell Hoisington. 

ONE TREE. 

I shall not need a forest to 

Complete my happiness, 
When I shall build at last for peace 

And days grow less. 
Oh- 1 have loved the thick deep woods 

Peopled with sentinels 
Full-linped in sprinp". breasted in snow 

Leaf songs, wind bells; 

Bnt I shall be content if I 
May have one tree, just one, 

Before my door, companioning me 
At set of sun. 

EaHh leafy melody will be 

The more in solo strain, 
Each drrmin** bough the lovelier lute 

After the rain. 

One tree, just one, will satisfy 

When I can no more go 
To hold communion with the hosts 

Of trees I know. 
The Cincinnati Times-Star. George Elliston. 

17 



DEERHURST IN THE HIGHLANDS OF 
ONTARIO. 

Where the green in the trees waits till summer is 
through 

Ere changing to crimson and gold. 
Where the sky overhead spreads a limitless blue 

Cloud curtained in beauty untold, 
Where the haze haunted hills and the valleys be- 
tween 

Add charm to the visions most fair, 
And the sparkling lake, like an emerald green, 

Delights all with its pleasures rare. 

Where cool breezes linger and temper the days, 

While birds are astir everywhere, 
And incite you to join in their chorus of praise, 

Dispelling all sadness and care. 
Where the mosses yield soft to your wandering 
tread, 

And shady nooks lure you to rest, 
Where the pondrous rocks speak of aeons long 
dead, 

While you muse on ages more blest. 

Where blithe nature prevails and her magic em- 
ploys 

To charm you wherever you roam, 
Where every glad hour brings its health-laden joys 

From dawn until evening's soft gloam. 
Where the glorious moon pilots lovers or friends 

On shore or in gliding canoe. 
Where you cast a deep sigh when the pleasure 
all ends, 

Ar*d regret your sojourn is through. 
The Toronto Sunday World. Millard S. Burns, 



THANKSGIVING. 

Not like the Pharisee of old, 
Give thanks to God this day, 

But rather like the Publican, 
Bend low, and humbly pray. 

The Buffalo Enquirer, Edward J. Denneen. 

18 



IN MEMORY OF WOODROW WILSON. 

"While Old Glory was at half-mast, in memory of the deatf 
war president, at Elko, Nevada, a great American eagle came 
and alighted upon the top of the flag-pole, remaining about ten 
minutes. An eEigle had not been known to do that since the nas 
was at half-mast for General Grant, when the same thing took 
place. This created considerable comment around the inter- 
rnountain country." 

Perhaps the fearless eagle 

Flying over all 
Sensed the great misfortune 

Of a comrade's fall; 
Or a kindred spirit 

On its farewell flight, 
Lingered for a moment 

Near you, bird of might. 

Mourn not, mighty falcon, 

As a prisoner, pale, 
Leaves on tardy pardon 

A grim and gloomy jail 
So his noble spirit 

Fled this earth away, 
His memory immortal 

To illumine a new day. 

Heraldic bird of freedom, 

Folding pensive wings, 
Brooding where Old Glory 

Half-masted, sadly swings; ^ 
Then spreading these great pinions 

And high to^ heavens soar, 
Symbol of his ideals 

To guide us evermore. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. Mrs. Clifton Brooks. 

ODE 

ON THE DEATH OF WOODROW WILSON. 

Night's blackest pall falls upon me, shrouding 
My woe from the world. I would cry my sorrow 
Aloud; but my voice falters in my throat 
And I am speechless. I would weep; but all 
My tears are shed for him who died belated 
Or else dried up with grief and utterly 

19 



Consumed in lamentation. Words are powerless 

To tell the agony that now bereaves me, 
The passion of despair that turns my heart 
To water, the eternal doom of failure, 
On me. Sound, tears, words, are only toys 
To tempt me from atonement! 

The trees that lately bore sweet fruit, the fields 
That yielded up full ears of corn, the flowering 
Bushes bent with bloom, o'ernight were blasted 
By decay; sheathed in silvern ice, they shudder 
And turn white with terror. O'ernight I, too, 
Have grown gray with grief ; for the hand of death 
Is in my heart. 

Here in my heart is a sorrow greater 
Than any in all the world. Not an^er, 
Hatred nor self -loss mingle in my grief. 
An element sublimated, vital^ 
And vigorous, a spiritual liquid air, 
Has wrought upon my trivial self; 
Immobile, a statue cold as in death. 
I stand, robbed of motion, thought and feeling. 

Incense ascends from all the altars 

Of the world to honor him whom lately 

We betrayed. Myriads kneeling, weeping, 

Pray for the tormented soul of him 

We crucified. And one, arch Judas of the age, 

"Pavs tribute to the departed leader." 

To him who is beyond all praise and blame! 

Nations unite in sorrow at his death 

A.nd name him great. Word of his death circles 

The earth ; prostrate are uncounted thousands 

Who never saw his face nor heard his voice. 

Thirty days of mourning shall there be 

And all the flags at half-mast flv; a decent 

Burial and an eloquent epitaph 

Will be provided. 

But tell me if these mouthings of regret 
And these formal words of commendation 
Can undo our sin or strike the black disgrace 
From out our bosoms? 



20 



Later, we shall set bronzen monuments 

Upon high hills where all may see the sun 

Set fire to the metal figure. But who 

Will set fire to our hard hearts? \ve shall place 

The withered body in a marble tomb 

And seal the door. But I prophesy now 

The spirit will rise and pass the portals 

Of the piison where we lodged him. Angelic 

Michael, with a flaming sword, may he come 

Again, waking us to life, conquering 

All the foes of mankind, setting hate to flight! 

What would he care for our praise or our tears? 
They are as empty as the Dead Sea fruit 
We gave him when he asked for bread. He asked 
For love ; we stoned him, smirching him with lies. 

But these words echo hollowly in my heart. 

Why can I not speak and ask forgiveness? 

We are guilty, we are guilty, in the sight 

Of God ; and we render up a facile request 

For mercy, meanwhile sending flowers 

To the funeral. We slew this man. Should not 

The sight of his dead body rouse memories 

In us of our own blood-stained palms, the dagger 

In our secret closet, and the murderous moment 

When we struck the assassin's blow? 

But no, we escort the corpse to the grave, 
Tolling the great bells all the while, and pray 
For the soul of the dead man, then leave 
A card of sympathy for the widow. 

God in heaven, this not a little grief 
That lies upon me, not a sorrow 
To be forgotten soon, not a sin ever 
To be expiated. Melt this heart, by woe 
Congealed ! Free it from these icy bands ! Must 
The remembrance of my sin follow me all my life? 

We are all traitors. That which is best 
We hated. That which is hard we avoided. 
That which is good we slandered. That which 

is just 

We murdered. And today we wander, lost 
And bewildered in our folly. 

21 



But what of him? He is high above us, 

We profane his memory to speak of him. 

Not even a single rose dare I drop 

On his new-made grave lest God strike me dead. 

Secure, he dwells above all earth-bound strife. 

If on his sorrowful way he had nor love 

Nor justice to companion him, he yet went on, 

His will unbroken, his faith undismayed, 

So I say, let be! Blind, we saw not 

Our duty. God can not help us now. But he 

Is at peace at last; for that thank God. 

But I, I shall go into the desert, 
There to beat my breast and heap ashes 
On my head all the days of my life. For I 
And all the world saw the man and knew him 
not. 

Elizabeth McCausland. 
The Springfield Republican. 



WOODROW WILSON. 

A heavenly vision, born of love and faith, 
Ensnared his heart, but we who lived by hate 
Refused to see. He opened wide the gate 
To universal peace, and bade the wraith 
Of war depart forever from the earth. 
Alas! we groveled in the mire; in gold 
We put our trust ; for stocks and bonds we sold 
His dream, which might have brought new worlds 
to birth. 

He took the cross, alone, but could not bear 
The load of shame we placed upon his heart, 
At last he fell, and sought to dwell apart. 
But he could not forget, nor cease to care 
That we had failed to see love's saving gleam, 
That we had scorned God's strange and wondrous 
dream. 

The Chicago Post. Thomas Curtis Clark. 

22 



WOODROW WILSON. 
(1856-1924) 

Strange justice walks abroad tonight. 

The pale, forsaken figure, whose 
Exalted quest was peace, has found 

The peace none may refuse. 

Teacher, Statesman, Leader freed 
From living strife and mortal pain 

Exhausted with the weight of dreams 
And hopes too great to gain. 

Beside the Thames, they share tonight 
Potomac's sorrow and goodbye 

For him who rose, when aid was life, 
A comrade and ally. 

On Paris streets, young soldiers pause 
To talk of him who sought to bring 

On sown, green fields of home, an end 
To war's red harvesting. 

Beyond the Rhine, the vanquished know 
No greed of empire touched his brain, 

But faith more sovereign than power 
And greater than domain. 

The tongue that stirred a half a world 
Is silent now; at rest the mind 

That knew the ultimate of praise 
And venom of mankind. 

Slow to the tomb the body goes 

Timed to no dim drum; 
Let those who scorned his faith stand forth 

And scoff his martyrdom! 

The New Freedom. Donald Gillies. 



23 



WOODROW WILSON. 
L 

Those crucified for Freedom can not die: 
Such are not born to taste caluminous death 
They view Truth's beckoning hand with quick'n- 

ing breath 

The where Old Glory floats against the sky; 
By this we know that immortality 
Attends their footsteps they who patient, 

brave 
The world's cross-currents, past the impotent 

grave, 
Like Lincoln 'neath the Light of Calvary. 

"Peace on the earth." They voicing the divine 
Eead in the stars the fate of Greed and Might 
The recrudescent Primitive man, and seal 
Upon Oblivion's tomb their death-head sign 
'These carved an open tomb for martyred Right 
With Wrong a gaping wound that would not 
heal." 

II. 

He came with that large utterance given the 

Great 

Whose vision sweeps the horizons of men, 
And treads the marge of the divine. As when 
One's path lies plain, tho troubled, yet sedate 
Beneath Truth's Polar star, he helmed the State, 
Nor changed his course, nor swerved for Pagan 

Wrong, 

Nor lesser craft, nor senile fears, for strong 
The tides that bear his Manifest elate! 

To him, the hand of sky-born Liberty 
Handmaiden rare of Justice, earthward lent 
The armor of invincible Truth. Full meet 
He bore the banner of the militant Free, 
To prove that Justice is Omnipotent, 
Nor all the wiles of men may bind her feet. 

The Chicago Post. William Crellin Kenyan. 

24 



WOODROW WILSON 

The eagle has passed on! ... into the blue . . . 
And all the chattering of the sparrows dies, 
They could not bear to see the eagle rise 

Beyond the reaches that their small wings knew, 

Above the housetops they could compass, too 
But though they strove to blind the eagle's eyes 
With fluttering wings ... to stay him with 
their cries, 

He rose and passed above, beyond their view. 

, , -IT 

An eagle always is a lonely one 

The far heights call to him and he must go; 
But little birds can not look on the sun, 

And what an eagle knows they can not know . . . 
When he is gone the small ones know, at last, 
That there, above their head, an eagle passed! 

Rosette Mercier Montgomery. 
The Neiv York World. 



WOODROW WILSON. 

Death found him as he faced his foes, 

Clear eyed and unafraid. 
Courageously his spirit goes 

Into the mortal shade. 
He laid him down like a banner torn 
In battle, like a rapier worn 
To the hilt in the fight for Freeman born 

Calmly and undismayed. 

Death found him ready. Courage shone 

In midst of agony, 
With head unbowed his goal was won 

With knightly dignity. 
Mayhap the pomp of Paris streamed 
Across his vision but there gleamed 
More glorious visions that he dreamed 

As he faced the end alone. 



25 



The path of glory ends ; the bier 

Awaits his last repose. 
His race is run, his record clear 

How clear the Lord God knows, 
He'd have no mourning, wild regret, 
He stood apart from the world and yet 
A tower has fallen, a star has set, 

Though the light from the star still glows. 
The Baltimore Post. Nelson Robins. 

WOODROW WILSON 1856-1924 

The chill of No Man's Land had touched his lips 
They shaped the phrase his simplest soldiers 
knew, 

And "I am ready," Wilson said. So sips 
One who accepts the cup, whate'er the brew. 

Not his that hell-broth Europe stirred and quaffed ; 

He must have prayed, "Take Thou this cup from 

me!" 
And yet he drained it else a world had laughed 

To scorn its hope and faith: democracy. 

He served and saved the faith; his banner bore 

A strange device, Idealist, alone 
He thought and fought when others thrust no 
more 

Against unthinking, selfish ranks their own! 

He fought for victory . . . he fell for peace, 
For brotherhood that would not fight again. 

He asked a suffering world to choose release 
From sick and spiteful hates of men for men. 

And we denied him. He was ready, still, 
To take defeat and broken body away, 

To hold calm purpose he might not fulfill 
The clear white mind burned on. It "burns today! 

An enemy once framed a verdict sure, 

That all his meaning and its greatness caught 
"Only one conqueror's work will long endure 
One conqueror's work" said Harden "Wil- 
son's thought." 

Marguerite Mooers Marshall. 
The New York World. 

26 



WOODROW WILSON ARISEN. 

Bitter hate and harsh reproaches no more shall 

fall upon you, 
Nor the burdens of a nation in a sorrow-stricken 

world, 
Nor the tears of those who loved you, pure hearts 

who shared the Vision 

E'er your clarion word was silenced and your 
mighty pinions furled. 

As on high the gates of morning open wide to bid 

you enter, 
The veiling mists of glory are dissolved and 

rent in twain, 
While the vastnesses of heaven shed an afterglow 

of splendor 

O'er a world forspent with passion born of tri- 
umph and of pain. 

Blight of scorn no more shall touch you nor bro- 
ken body hinder, 
Nor conflict bow your spirit in an agony of 

shame. 
You shall break bread with the prophets, you shall 

stand with the immortals, 
And from a lofty mountain hear the thunder 
of acclaim. 

The Springfield Republican. Janet Bolton. 

THE SWEETHEARTS OF '61. 

Here's to the sweethearts of '61, 
And the roses they twined in its story; 
Bidding Godspeed to a husband or son, 
With no thought of a share in its glory. 
Rocking the cradle with tears in their hearts, 
By lone firesides when children were crying, 
Nursing the wounded and sick as their part 
In the struggle where loved ones were dying; 
Patiently sewing the stars on the blue, 
Perhaps dear ones might die in defending, 
Knitting mens' souls in a bond strong and true, 
To the glory of women, unending. 

Champaign News-Gazette. Jack Lawder. 

27 



WET PAVEMENTS. 

Wet black pavements in the dripping of the rain 
\vet biack pavements are mirroring plain 
Magic of colors in the streets at night, 
Magic of colors, when signs drip lignt; 
When booths are brandis&ing torches bold; 
\Vhen blazing windows Durst with gold; 
When a string of trolleys, that laziiy sprawls, 
A naming yellow caterpillar crawls. 
And so 1 wander and marvel to see 
Mow streets, thick-layered with witchery 
Glow like a Grand Bazaar of dreams, 
In shimmer of rlagstone and asphalt's gleams. . * . 
Then as i move in the sleek wet night, 
Chameieon-ilagstones, seething bright, 
Smolder and sizzle with misty gold; 
Till it seems that the pavements hold ^ 
Glimmering galleons and treasure ships, ^ 
Blazing wich disaster that spurts and drips . . . 
Soon as the galleons drown and fill, 
Out of their tar-black fissure spill, 
Out of the gaping cracks in their hulks, 
Ingots and topazes of dazzling bulks, 
That, trailing a sulphurous fiery track, 
Smoke in waters of velvet black. * . . 

Oh, there's nothing that's as wonderful to me 
Nothing is as wonderful as when I see 
Magic so startling and magic so plain 
As wet black pavements in the soft night 



The American Hebrew. Louis Ginsberg. 



THIS PALE WHITE ROSE 

She watched 'em going 

Steadily, silently, 

Down through a century 

Of bushy swales 

And sloughs the farmers 

Drained out, later. 

28 



She put up her hand 
Occasionally, and if 
Her thorny finger-tips 
Tore at the muddy hair 
On the legs of the ponies, 
Whose business was it 
But her'n? 

Tried to keep, 

Tried to hold 'em, she did 
But on they went . . . 
Fading out along the blue ridges 
Where the I. C. runs, now. 
And they always were wrapped 
In a deep, sad symphony 
Of dusky blankets, 
With the smell of ^ wood ashes 
And meat grease in 'em. 

They blew out tVard Dakoty 

Long time ago. 

Yes, and son, 

You can go up the field 

And find the erraves 

They left behind 'em; 

And when the moon 

Is wavering up out of the river, 

They say you can hear her 

Singing and asking them 

To come back. . . . 

But on they went 

UD into Dakoty, 

With their fretting ponies' feet; 

And the smell of sweaty blankets 

And flag-root. 

This white rose, that once 

Was pink, 

She seen 'em go. 

Son, don't you ever grub out 
Them brier bushes. . . . 
The Des Moines Register. M&cKirilay Kantor. 

29 



DECEMBER. 

Here on the hearth gleams the last red ember, 
Glowing more faintly as the night wears on. 

Now must the heart urge the soul to remember 
Fires that it fancied in days that are gone. 

Ice and the wind and ghouls of December 
Oh, pity the heart that must leave with the year ! 

This is the custom, and some will remember 
Pity for me that the end is so near. 

This is the custom, yet why should I sorrow 
Here by a hearth that is flameless and cold ! 

Where is adventure like that of tomorrow, 
When stars and their secrets my soul shall be- 
hold! 

The Kansas City Star. Lowe W. Wren. 



THE PROMISE KEPT. 

In slippers she came by quite oddly 
Her fairy feet flashed through the dance. 

Long ago had her heart, false, ungodly, 
Forgot lover lost in far France, 

Her eyes held a dare and a warning 
And laughter lay light on her lips, 

While shoulders as fair as the morning 
Kept time with her rhythmical hips. 

But soon through her being fear's magic 
Crisped strands of her soft clinging hair 

For message, grave-haunted and tragic 
Lined face with grim horror's despair. 

"Again, as I promised, I glance in" 
Love's whisper that left her undone! 

"The slippers, my darling, you dance in 
Were made from my skin by the Hun." 

The Albany Democrat. Oscar H. Roesner. 

30 



LINCOLN. 

Long years have travailed to the end that here, 
Thy sculptured image, noble Lincoln stands, 
Whilst I, an idle dreamer, pause and muse. 
Thou wast not crushed by man's dread burden, 

nay, 

Thy strength was gathered both to bear and give ; 
Against blind Fate's decree thou didst not rage, 
But taught thy brother man a better way 
To master pain and dark adversity. 
To look upon his fellow man with love, 
And do his work as unto God alone, 
To find the truth of his deep, inner self, 
And measure ev'ry thought and deed with Truth. 

We feel as we upon thy statue gaze 
Man's crown of joy is given when he sees 
Himself as bearer of the holy flame of God, 
The tiny spark that centuries have nursed. 
Delight more personal doth surge and flow 
When each of us is brought to realize 
That this true light is his, to overcome 
The dark and grim of his environment, 
If he has faith, and hope and charity, 
And knows, like thee, the mystic energy 
That drives the soul that is at one with God. 

May we, if in the time to come we would 

With worldly falsehood weakly compromise, 

Swiftly recall our loved leader's face, 

And see the lines that pain has written there, 

Deep anguish born of woes like unto ours, ' 

Then, should the voice that ever guided him, 

From silent deeps but whisper forth our name, 

May we respond to that angelic tone, 

Which is surcharged with God's most awful power, 

And without question may we swiftly turn, 

Obeying, as did Lincoln, to the end. 

Mill Valley Record. Joan Woodward. 



31 



THE WOODLAND DEPTHS. 

God's gardens are the woodland depths, 

He loves to labor there; 
For trees are plants of larger growth 

That He has reared with care. 
He waters them from boundless skies 

And pours His sunshine through. 
Then, in the night, He decks their jade 

With Heaven's jewels, too. 
And ev'ry hour, long as they live, 

He binds new moorings fast 
To anchorage of earth and rock 

'Gainst torrent and the blast. 

He spreads deep shadows round about 

And hangs a leafy screen 
Where bird and beast in Paradise 

May live and thrive unseen. 
When autumn turns the leaves to gold 

He plucks them day by day. 
And one by one He fashions them 

A carpet soft and gay. 
Soon, too, He weaves a coverlet 

From downy flakes of snow 
And tucks it in like mother does 

To warm each drowsy toe. 
The Buffalo Enquirer. Edward J. Denneen. 

CALVIN FATHER AND SON. 
(News Recorded by Radio.) 

We listened to the burdened air; 
And some of us were bowed in prayer; 
While people waited, everywhere . . . 
Then came the word that cleft the night 
A.s swiftly as a comet's flight; 
The boy had lost his gallant fight . . . 
The slim young soul had passed the marge 
Of worlds we know ; the moon's pale targe 
Was left behind ; his goal more large. 
We seemed to hear the cry of one 
The age old cry for Absalom: 
"My son , . . My son . . /' 

32 



The summer night seemed turned to stone; 
The men convening breathed a groan; 

And all gave way to grief, alone, 
We mothers crept to little beds, 
And kissed, with anguish, little heads, 
Our own hearts stabbed by mother dreads. 
While fathers set their lips, and bent 
Before that figure, stern and spent; 
And shared a father's sacrament 
They seemed to hear the cry of one 
The age old cry for Absalom: 
"My son . . . My son . . ." 

A discipline that does not veer, 
Will help our grieving leader steer 
The ship of state with freight of fear. 
We fellow men, by ni^rht, may see 
Beneath the sky's high heraldry 
A figure of supremacy. 
And figurehead of boyish mien; 
Pure eyed and smiling, straight and clean; 
Victorious youth, secure, serene, 
We'll seem to hear the cry of one 
The age old cry for Absalom: 
"My son ... My son . . ." 

So Youth forever comes and goes, 
And Drives to Age the much it knows; 
The triumphs, solace, heartache, woes, 
Authority through loss or gain 
Beclothes the man inured to pain, 
Who strives that others may attain. . . . 
But, as we watch our Helmsman, there, 
We'll hear a cry upon the air, 
And fall UDon our knees, in prayer, 
For it will be the cry of one 
The age old cry for Absalom: 
"My son . . . My son . . ." 

The New York Sun. Ruth Mason Rice. 



38 



IN MEMORIAM. 

I think he must have been so loath to go! 
Life wears at sixteen such a gallant face, 
The door not yet quite closed on boyish things, 
The road to manhood just outside, each day 
Sealing a promise with the setting sun. 
We must not think of him as dead, for that 
Young courage of the high-held head lives on, 
And knows a wider, greener world than ours, 
Rejoices in a sun more gold, in stars 
Made vocal by the singing breath of God . . . 
Oh, there are playfields, there in Paradise, 
And happy comrades ; there is work for hands 
So young and willing; there are trees and bloom 
And sunlit vistas for the dear young eyes, 
And there is rest at night. 

No tears for him 

Who has eternal wisdom, now, and peace, 
But for the others, whose devoted feet, 
In service set, may not yet follow him, 
The tears of nations fall, and in the heart, 
The Universal Heart, of Parenthood, 
The wound must bleed. No bars are here 
Of space or rank . . . First Woman and First Man, 
Mourning their son, lay spirit hands in ours, 
And there's no mother in this lovely land, 
Which honors them, whose seeing eyes are dry . . . 
He has not died . . . that tall, beloved boy, 
But they, they die a hundred little deaths 
Remembering, 

God, give them comfort, now 
Strength of Your hills, and courage of Your skies ; 
Be with them in that lonely, ancient house; 
Be with that father who has lost his son, 
For just this little earth-while; be with her, 
Who thinks back to the baby at her breast 
And knows, as peasant-heart or Queen must know, 
The stark immensity of mother grief 
And devastating tears. 

God, help her now! 

The New York Times. Faith Baldwin. 

34 



PERCY HAUGHTON. 

He saw at last the red dawn rise 
From the darkness deep as night; 
He saw a new light sweep the skies 
Above a winning fight; 
And as he passed beyond the hill 
Where darker days had gone, 
He left his flaming spirit still 
To guide his troopers on. 

He saw, near by, the once dim goal 

Now distant but a span ; 

He saw the once furled flag unroll 

Above a winning clan; 

For he had scaled the barricade 

To lead his troopers through 

Before night sent its mantling shade 

To blur the crest from view. 

A flash of steel a flare of flame 

And down the field at last 

His winning troopers leap to fame 

Before the dream is past; 

And somewhere out in twilight space 

His soul shall keep its bond 

To put new fight in those who face 

The vast dim height beyond. 

Grantland Rice. 
The New York Herald Tribune. 



OUR DEAD. 

Our dead, they sleep beneath the sod; 
Our dead long since have walked with God. 
Our dead, who, fearless, gave up life; 
Our dead, who died midst battle's strife. 
Our dead, who knew Love's soft caress; 
Our dead, who knew woe and distress. 
Our dead, they know our hopes and fears! 
Our dead, they see our bitter tears, 
Some day ag-ain our dead we'll see 
We, too, shall know Eternity! 

The Cincinnati Times-Star. Alma O'Neill 

35 



TO THE FIEST LADY. 

The Nation grieves with you, the Mother heart, 

Knowing the life you bravely gave has fled, 

Muted We have no words that will impart 

Our sympathy, nothing can be said 

To ease the black despair of those bereft 

Of one who was so much a part of life, 

They that suffer are the ones he left, 

He has been freed from useless pain and strife. 

We know with what grave vision you have 

planned 

The gorgeous dreams his budding life fulfills 
As he with all his promise would expand, 
All these brave plans death's clutching finger 

stills, 

And we, America, can understand 
The aching void no solace ever fills. 
The Salt Lake Tribune. Edith Cherrington. 

HOLLYHOCKS. 

The streets of heaven, I've been told, 
Are paved with bricks of solid gold; 

The gates are all of precious stone, 
And poverty's a thing unknown. 

No thunder showers enter there, 
For every day is dazzling fair. 

Yet, strangely, I have never heard 
A flower mentioned, or a bird; 

And I'm quite sure that I would tire 
Of playing on a golden lyre. 

So, if there's room, along the walks 
I think I'll plant some hollyhocks; 

And soon as they begin to grow 
I'll tend them with a golden hoe. 

If Gabriel should pass my way, 
I'm certain he'd sit down and stay. 
Jacksonville Daily Journal Wayne Gard. 

36 



WINTER JASMINE. 

Some creepers snared me in my woods today; 
Jasmine! I traced the stems along the ground 
Through withered leaves and snow I found 
That February's tangled disarray 
Of weeds and briers had not availed to stay 
Their heavenward progress; now the tendrils 

wound 

About an oak; up, up they climbed around 
The haggard trunk and branches gaunt and grey. 

The barren meshes, as I gazed on them, 
Closed on my heart and, like the summer sun, 
It warmed them into mystic blossoming. 
They crowned grey winter with a diadem 
Of April gold by fancy's fingers spun, 
And, sudden, on my spirit broke the spring. 
The Boston Transcript. Mary Sinton Leitch. 



MOON OF MAY. 

Over the iris in the garden closes, 

Over the buds that June will know as roses, 

Over the snow of cherry trees in bloom, 

Over the lilacs, heavy with perfume, 

Along your ancient, star-encompassed way, 

Tread lightly, Moon of May, bright Moon of May. 

Over the hearts of lovers where they follow 
The breath of violets by slope and hollow. 
Over the leafage where the oriole's nest 
Trembles with all the winds, beneath her breast. 
Up to heaven's quiet from the glare of day. 
Rise on your cloud-laced pinions, Moon of May. 

On country roads where happy passions tingle 
With night-blown coolness from some wayside 

dingle, 

On love, on life, on beauty bright in birth, 
On all the strangeness and the joy of earth, 
From your full silver urn for our today 
Pour out the wine of promise, Moon of May. 

Lewis Worthington Smith. 
The Boston Transcript. 

37 



CROSSING THE DESERT. 

The sun beats down on the desert sand, 
Old Pinto plods wearily on. 
The heat of hell is on this land, 
Its smoke shimmers languidly. 
Green grasses, flowers and trees rise 
Beside swift-running, noisy waters, 
Then fade away before my eyes 
Nothing is there, nothing but desert sand. 
Dim in the distance against the sky, 
A haven of rest, the mountains bulk. 

"Oh, God! Must we die 
When life lies yonder? 
Must these drifted sands be our tomb 
Without mark or monument? 
Must this be our doom . . . 
A pile of bleaching, wind-blown bones?" 

"Come, Pinto, we can make it; 
We're going thru!" 

The Denver Post. E. Richard Shipp. 

MEMORIES OF ROOSEVELT. 

As we look back and scan life's hazy prime 

Across the waste of long forgotten years, 

Some gleam divine breaks through the night 

and clears 

The clouds, that veil the beacon lights of Time, 
Making appeal to every age and clime, 

While all else in the darkness disappears. 

The past is lost, with all its joys and tears ; 
But here and there a star with look sublime 

Shines on our days with gleams from long ago. 
And so will Roosevelt crown the skies to be 

Like some great mountain in an after-glow, 
That shades its lower slopes as tenderly 

As Time hides lives we do not care to know, 
With all the Highest glows in memory. 

Washington Van Dusen. 
The Philadelphia Bulletin. 

38 



WILD FLOWER TIME IN KANSAS. 

In Kansas, when the wild flowers bloom, 

And every tree is green; 
When birds rejoice where once was gloom, 

And all the world's serene. ^ 
Then gone are woes and sordid things, 

The earth's a place sublime^ 
Our cares of yesterday take wings, 
, In Kansas when it's wild flower time. 

The birds broadcast a warbled tune, 

Each lowly cot's a palace 
'Neath roses, while the bees commune 

With every flower's chalice. 
Cattle browse o'er tufted plot, 

While sheep the hillside climb; 
Content are they and rich their lot, 

In Kansas when it's wild flower time. 

What more is wealth than these wild flowers? 

What songs have more of rhyme 
Than gay birds at the early hours 

In Kansas when it's wild flower time? 

The Kansas City Times. Robin A. Walker. 



SYMBOLS. 

I never see upon a hill 

Cedar or pine or olive tree, 
But that I think of One who died 

On Calvary. 

I never hear the hammer's ring 
Driving the nail deep in the wood, 

But that I see pale hands whose palms 
Are dark with blood. 

I never feel the dark come down 
But that I hear a piercing cry 
That tears my heart, "Eli Lama 

SabachthanL" 

The Virginia Pilot. John Richard Moreland. 

39 



YELLOW BIRD. 

Oh, lyric-sweet harbinger of delight, 
Small innocent prisoner, you should not be 
Immured and held captive so thoughtlessly, 

Denied your peerless heritage of flight 

Through rolling meadows radiant in sunlight, 
Where go your companions unfettered, free. 
All winging and carolling joyously, 

Forever exulting in their birthright. 

Oh, little chorister, if I were near 
I know I would open your tiny gate 
And bid you lly to some white blossom tree 

That unto bird hearts must be ever dear. 
Yes, though trespassers' law I violate, 
And, they in turn, make a prisoner of me. 

Agnes MacCarthy Hickey. 
The New York Evening Sim. 



THE TOKEN IN THE SKY. 

Far down the vale a reddish glint is still 
Where but a moment gone it streaked the hill, 
Alert and tense it lifts a hungry eye 
To view a moving angle in the sky. 

Some distance on through waking elm and oak, 
Below a slender thread of peaceful smoke, 
A farmer cups his ear and listens long, 
"They're goin' north/* he cries, "and flyin' 
strong I" 

And now against the blue that tops the dawn, 
Clearly, two stately lines are swiftly drawn 
Two lines converging like the letter "V" 
Winged by a gander to some northern sea! 

The Kansas City Star. Lowe W. Wren. 



40 



GIBRALTERS. 

(NOTE: Gibralters were hard, flinty candies originated in Old 
Salun. it is s*uu Ui*.t tne manners took tnem on voyages to 
prevent homesickness.) 

When a lad from Salem 

Sets out to sea, 
He always takes gibralters 

To bear him company. 

Far away from Salem, 

When his eyes grow dim, 
These are the only things 

That comfort him. 

He may feel like weeping, 

But he will never falter 
If he chews, chews, CHEWS, 
On a peppermint gibralter! 
The Boston Transcript. Oliver Jenkins. 

LILY OF THE VALLEY. 

Fashioned out of loveliness 
With rising bells to re-express 
The inner purpose of thy will 
To bloom with higher beauty still 

If that could be 

This hour for me. 
And yet thy tender stem and form 
Survived a winter's sleet and storm 

In frozen earth 

To tell the worth 
Of life's vicissitudes. 

And when we see this life that is 
Who shall deny 'twere better far 
With all its dire adversities 
That breasts were bared to take their scar 

For all of those 

Who ever rose 

Above the duress of their day 
Possessed through it that nobler sway 

Which holds them fast 

Until at last 

It makes them worthy men. 
The Tradesman. Charles A. Heath. 

41 



THE ABANDONED RANCH. 

In the clear Wyoming sunlight, in the weird and 

silent starlight, 
Stands the old forsaken cabin, just a dot upon 

the plains. 
And the hearth is cold and rusty, the cellar damp 

and musty; 
Of the cosy home here started only ruin now 

remains. 
For the chimney flue has crumbled, the corrals 

and sheds are tumbled, 
While scattered posts still mark the spot where 

once the haystack stood. 
Barrel hoops and wagon tires, sun-warped boots 

and bailing wires, 
By the mat of chips and splinters where the 

rancher chopped his wood. 

In the old forsaken cabin pack-rats pile the prickly 



And the badger finds the cellar which becomes 

his winter lair, 
And the striped chipmunk scurries and the timid 

wood-rat hurries 
From the kitchen to the pantry where the wind- 

swept shelves are bare. 
Silent callers come exploring, moonlight nights in 

summer weather 
Horses, wild and unbroken, innocent of bit or 

rein; 
Cautiously they sniff and wonder at the odds and 

ends of plunder, 
Quick to snort and wheel and bound away into 

the moonlit plain. 

On a nail inside the cabin door a leather vest is 

swinging; 
And the message in a pocket tells the story at 

a glance. 
Just an order from the Local Board, its fateful 

summons bringing, 
And we visualize the plainsman on the battle 

fields of France. 

42 



The homestead stood dejected and the livestock 

strayed, neglected, 

While the stag hound watched and waited as he 
patiently stood guard. 

None to keep the home tires burning for the absent 
one's returning 

Now the faithful watch dog's bones lie bleach- 
ing in the grass-grown yard. 

The Inland Oil Index. Roy Churchill Smith. 



TODAY IN FLANDERS. 

In Flanders Fields, 'neath poppies red, 
With just a cross to mark each bed, 
And skylarks singing overhead 
Sweet be your rest 

Think not that you have died in vain, 
Who kept the colors free from stain; 
Held high the Maple Leaf again 
Bravest and best. 

We still shall welcome all who seek 
Freedom; shall still protect the weak; 
Condemn the wrong and shield the meek. 
Sleep on, ye blest. 

In loving tribute to each one, 
Who gave a life but just begun, 
And sleeps beneath a far-off sun, 
This our behest: 

As long as our fair land shall He 
Beneath the deep blue smiling sky. 
The Maple Leaf shall wave on high, 
You've memory's best. 

In Flanders Fields peace reigns once more, 
While overhead the skylarks soar; 
And poppies bloom as ne'er before 
To sooth your rest. 

Mary Dams Reed. 
The Sault Saint Marie Daily Star. 

43 



THE WARRIOR PASSES 

In S Street trod the f antom guard 

The men of Argonne men of Aisne 
Who battled well and battled hard m 

And, sorely wounded, died in vain. 
Forgotten dead were on parade 

A mangled crew, if men would know 
But still with faces undismayed, 

They marched with majesty and, lo, 

On S Street to the rendezvous 

The darkened house they came at last : 
The sergeant silently withdrew 

The lipless bugler shrilled a blast; 
The President! The gallant call 

Startled the shadows with its flame, 
And from the doorway, gaunt and tall, 

The President the Chieftain came! 

Martyred and old, the Chieftain came 

To meet the warrior guard of death. 
His brow was hurt, his body lame; 

His heart was still and still his breath. 
His greatness, like a shining cloak, 

Obscured his broken form and bent ; 
The ghastly sergeant wheeled and spoke, 

And rifles mounted to "Present!" 

In S Street in the street of grief 

The deathly guard of honor trod, 
Bearing the spirit of their Chief 

Into the cabinet of God. 
How different another day! 

The thundering cheers that would not cease! 
When glittering Paris thronged the way 

Into the rendezvous of peace! 

They marched awaythe guard of death 

Silent and grim behind the Great ; 
And phantom Youth without a breath 
Whispered unto his mangled mate, 
"What is the thing about his face 

"That makes me dream of something dim 
"A crucifix at some torn place 

"And the shell-scarred face of Him." 
The Kansas City Journal Post. Hubert Kelley* 

44 



THE EUCALYPTUS FIRE. 

There comes exotic music, 
Breath of strange perfume, 

As the firelight dances 
In the crowded room. 

I visited crowded cities, 
. Agra and Bombay, 
See pirate junks in harbors 
Crimson sailed and gay. 

Brilliant hued processions 
Of lama, bonze, and priest; 

Janissaires saluting 
Sultans of the East. 

Lonely breakers rolling 

On archipelagoes 
Where the palm trees shiver, 

When the monsoon blows. 

Quietly the pageant 

Fades before my eyes 
As the golden firelight 

Flickers down and dies. 
The Santa Ana Daily Register. Beulah May. 

WILD VERBENAS. 

The white dune sparkles by the Sea, 
And at the Sun's warm smile. 

Her blushes turn to velvet bloom 
Verbenas by the mile. 

In crimson coats they spring to life, 

Like conquerors of old 
In miniature, with trappings bright 

They stage their duels bold; 

They raise their stems like twinkling swords, 

Their helmets then appear. 
As up they prance perennially 
To fence throughout the year. 

Marie Tello Phillips. 
The Pittsburgh Observer. 

45 



AUTUMN. 

The golden Autumn's here again, 

The sumac's dressed in red, 
The cricket drones its last refrain, 

In mem'ry of the summer dead. 
With yellow curls upon its head, 

The lonely maple down the street, 
Will soon be stripped of ev'ry shred, 

When leaves are scattered 'round its feet. 
Our just reward for summer's strain, 

Of toil, and strife, and sweat, and dread 
Of want and loss, and stress and pain, 
. Is safely housed in barn and shed. 
The fruited tree with measured tread, 

Sways back and forth without retreat, 
But braves the wind and storm instead, 

When leaves are scattered 'round its feet. 
The feathered flocks through sleet and rain, 

Directed by that Hand that fed 
And cared for them on land and main, 

Are speeding South, the summer sped. 
The giant oak, to terror bred, 

Is bravely standing strong to greet 
The Winter's cold when Autumn's fled, 

When leaves are scattered 'round its feet. 

ENVOY. 

Autumn, may my soul be wed 
To that great Tree whose branches meet 

The rim of Time when all is said, 
When leaves are scattered 'round its feet. 

Henry Polk Lowenstein, 
The Kansas City Star. 



46 



THE DESERTED MILL. 

I know a spot by a winding stream 
Where tiger-lilies glow and gleam 
The waters glisten as they flow 
To join the waiting falls below. 
Across the banks from treetops tall 
The wavering lacy shadows fall; 
And leaning 'gainst a neighboring hill 
There stands an old deserted mill. 

How oft* in summer days gone by 
I've sat within its welcome shade, 
And watched the trout leap in the stream 
With joy at the sight they made; 
I've lingered there in days of fall 
When winters* tang was in the air, 
And heard the quail's clear whistling call 
Come sweetly from the hillside fair. 

How oft' I've seen the miller stand 
Within the well remembered door, 
To show the farmers where to stow 
The sacks of wheat upon the fleer. 
Then, when he ground the golden grain 
The flashing wheel spun round so fast 
And threw the water up so high 
You could not see the spokes that passed, 

But now a change lies o'er the mill, 
No more the miller grinds the grain ; 
The flashing wheel no longer turns, 
'Tis held fast by a rusty chain. 
Across the floor the dust lies deep 
Where once the busy farmers trod ; 
And hisch upon the mossy roof 
The billing pigeons coo and nod. 

I listened long, while lingering there 
To hear the quails pipe from the hill; 
In even that there was a change, 
The sweetly subtle notes were still. 
The only things that seemed unchanged 
Was the mocking laughter of the rill. 
And night's gray mantle settling down 
Around the old deserted mill. 
The Casper Daily Tribune. Lilian L. Elgin. 

47 



COMA. 

Asleep in deep, still valleys, 

The old placer country lies; 
Deep-dreaming and dead-seeming, 

With heavy-lidded eyes; 
And terraced still is every hill, 

With trails that dip and rise. 

The walls of those silent valleys 

Ke-echo the coyote's bark, 
The cheery call of the valley quail, 

The sweet pipe of the lark; 
There the sun dips soon in the afternoon 

Behind the ridges stark. 

Dark pines climb the rough walls steeply 

To feather each rocky crest; 
Pines like blue mist smoke sof* lv 

In spots, on the dark slope's breast. 
Blue shadows fill the gulches still, 

When the sun is in the West. 

Ten thousand years it lay at peace, 
Till they found its gold, and then 

It sprang into feverish, roaring life; 
Humming with eager men, 

When they took the gold its streams had rolled, 
It sank to its rest again. 

The shacks of those delving thousands 

Lie rotting, here and there; 
Some tightly barred, guard ancient tools ; 

Some open to the air. 
Now the mountain lion treads rustv iron, 

Where once blazed the blacksmith's flare. 

Though her noble pines are falling, 

And her golden sands are run, 
In her dreams she holds out widely, 

Warm arms to the questing one, 
As though to beguile, with her lazy smile, 

With hopes of wealth unwon. 



48 



Sleeping in her still valleys, 
Is she dreaming of former pride; 

Or is she sleeping to gain new strength, 
For a better than gold tide, 

When a finer flash will grow from the ash 

Of a country that flamed and died? 
The New Canaan Advertiser. Ormlle Leonard. 



A BOY. 

I asked a lad, who comes my way, 

And full of wisdom seems, 
How it could be that his young eyes 

Were made of fires and dreams. 

How is it, my boy, I said, that you 

Can speak with golden-rod 
And it can answer you, and then 

Nod, smiling, up toward God? 

How is it, lad, that your blue eyes 

Can read the message far 
That's hidden anchored in the skies 

Behind that smallest star? 

Why is it then you seem to know- 
That autumn leaves must sift 

For countless ages to the ground 
Must fall, and whirl and drift? 

What is there in the song of birds 
That holds you, spellbound, where 

I listen long, and never hear 
Hie music in the air? 

Ah, you he said you are but you, 

And I am I, instead 
For I have stood at Riley's grave 

Jim Eiley who is dead! 

The Indianapolis Star. Walter Gremough. 

49 



FLAG OF OURS. 

Flag of Ours emblem of liberty 

For which our fathers sacrificed and died 

Float by the portals of our Western sea, 
New consecrated and new sanctified ! 

Beneath thy stars let no oppression rise; 

No anarchy to cloud sweet Freedom's skies 
Flag of Ours! 

O Flag of Ours ensign of law and right- 
Unsullied still, wave o'er our Nation's halls ! 

Let justice reign, not selfishness or might, 
To keep the record clean within our walls; 

And may thy fair folds never droop in shame 

Of blot or tarnish on our Country's name 
Flag of Ours! 

Flag of Ours dear banner born of hope, 

Of trust in God, and of man's high desire- 
Where fly thy colors brave from slope to slope 

Let Faith be still the flaming signal fire! 
Leader of armies, help dread war to cease 
By leading on the grreat cohorts of Peace 
O Flag of Ours! 

Anna Blake Mezquida. 
The San Francisco Chronicle. 



THE WANDERING JEW. 

I am the son of the ages, 

Defier of rack and stake; 
The storm that uproots and that rages 

Can only bend me, not break. 

I am the swordless struggler 
With man for man's re-birth; 

I am Prometheus the smuggler 
Of heaven's fire on earth. 

I am the Peddler who barters 
And pays with life for faith; 

I am the son of martyrs 
Who conquered life thj-ough death. 

HO 



I am the Nations' riddle 

Homeless in thousand homes; 
When Romes are burning my fiddle 

Is playing the tune of new Romes. 

I am a book whose pages 
Are written in blood and in flame; 

I am the son of the Ages 
The Wandering Jew is my name! 

The Jewish Tribune. P. M. Raskin. 

PRESERVE THE SHOT TOWER. 

White topped with mural crown and firm 
Imbedded on foundation rock, 

The Old Shot Tower, which served its term, 
Stands doomed to be a city's mock 

Of all that sentiment holds true- 
To make a way for something new. 

Oh, people here, pray cast aside 
Your venal instincts. Do and dare 

That we may save for civic pride 
A landmark, lofty, straight and rare. 

*Tis old and worn, but fine and true; 

Displace it not for something new. 
The Baltimore Sun. - Gay Walton Banks. 

THE SHOT TOWER SPEAKS. 

I look with ancient eyes upon the city 

Whose tireless traffic ever round me rolls, 
I feel its pain, its passion and its pity 

As well as men possessed with mortal souls. 
My hands the work of many long completed : 

I helped replace the saber and the sword, 
Who now with calculating scorn am greeted 

The wealthy giving never thought or word. 
The worldly-wise go by with hearts unheeding; 

And yet my very silence calls aloud. 
Will only dreamers lend the help I'm needing 

To save me from the coffin and the shroud? 
I link the present with the vanished past, 
Must I go down in ruin at the last? 

The Baltimore Sun. William James Price. 

51 



THE SHOT TOWEE OF BALTIMORE. 

Tall-looming 'gainst the skyline of the town 
This ancient Shot Tower keeps fair company; 

There are the monuments whose glorious fame 
Has blazoned Baltimore from sea to sea. 

There are high steeples pointing Heavenward 
That speak God's worship and His name extol ; 

There mighty towers of industry arise 
From districts where the tides of traffic roll. 

No shaft like this is found in all the land, 
It represents a process from an earlier day 

And stands imperishable and serene 

When buildings of its kind have passed away. 

Age-hallowed memories around it cling, 

Fragrant with romance of the bygone days, 

When dames in rich brocade went charioted 
In stately splendor down the city's ways. 

It tells as only ancient things may tell 
Of valiant men, a statesman-warrior band, 

Who saved the nation in her hour of need 
And brought great honor to our Maryland. 

let no vandal hand be rashly raised 

To tear this sacred, honored landmark down; 

Well might the nation cry upon us "Shame!" 
Who hold so light our city's fair renown. 

A thousand hearts responsive hear the call, 
A thousand hands shall swift and willing be 

To save this symbol of a glorious past, 
A reverent offering to posterity. 

The Baltimore Sun. Maria Brisco Croker. 



THE DINGY STREET. 

When I go to my work at morn, 
The houses all along the way, 

They stare at me most haughtily, 
And never once, "Good Morning," say. 

52 



Their little lawns are prim and square; 

No children play upon the grass; 
And strangers live somewhere within ; 

I never see them as I pass. 

But farther on there is a street, 
Where close against each other stand 

The dingy buildings, hugging close 
The walk, as little waves the sand. 

The secondhand store man comes out, 
And sweeps the littered flagstones clean; 

Beside the door his wife has hung 
Her parrots two, of tropic green. 

And from the windows overhead, 

Come shouts of children unrestrained; 

And trucks are standing on the curb, 
And workmen there in garments stained. 

The old dog sleeps within the sun, 
The teamster to his horses cries; 

And curiously I gaze within 
Where Charlie Chong his iron plies. 

When I go to my work at morn, 

I love this street so gray and small * 

So full of friendly throbbing life, 
And smile a greeting to them alL 

The Kansas City Star. Lenna Williamson. 



IMPRESSION. 

You are 

A fantasy-flower tossed from Paradise, daint- 
ily patterned. 

Your fragrance 

Is of the wind and wide waters, wafted from 
an eternal fountain. 

The touch 
Of your hand thrills me with pleasuref ul pain. 

Your lips 

Are beckoning torches lighting untrespassed 
pathways . . . that I dare not follow! 

The American Hebrew. Herman E. Segelin. 

53 



GLEANINGS FROM AN OIL TOWN. 

Have you ever lived in a mushroom town, 

Among the derricks tall, 

The storage tanks, and the rushing trucks, 

And felt the lure of it all? 

Have you wandered off to a wildcat well, 

Being drilled by a standard rig, 

And envied the men, of Herculean strength, 

Who seemed immune to fatigue? 

Did you hear the throb of the engine, 
Catch the sound of escaping steam, 
The rhythmical sound of the steady drill, 
And the clank of the sturdy beam? 
Did you notice the pungent scent in the air, 
As you watched in breathless suspense? 
That odor which thrills the oil town man, 
Like the burning of sweet incense. 

Did you see how the bull wheel trembled 

And shook like a palsied hand? 

Did you feel the thrill as the lowered drill 

Bored through the last oil sand? 

And the well gushed forth with a mighty roar, 

That made the timbers creak ! 

As the crude oil leaped from mother earth, 

With a hissing, roaring shriek! 

If you missed this, then you've missed half the 

fun, 

Of life in a mushroom town, 
Where the biting steel makes mother earth yield 
Her treasures from the ground. 
There are those, who craving excitement, 
Move off to the city to dwell, 
They may do as they will, but I'll get my thrill, 
As they bring in a wildcat well ! 

The Ardmoreite. Bertha Heiderich Wallace. 



54 



THE CALL OF THE WEST, 

From the breast of vast prairies 

Where curlews wheel and cry, 

And the tang of rain-washed sagebrush 

On the air goes drifting by; 

From the weird singing wind in the pine trees 

That grow on the mountain crest, 

There came to my heart, in the long ago 

The luring call of the West. 

It came, from blooming cactus 
That covers the desert's face, 
From crags, where wise old eagles 
Find a snug, safe, nesting place. 
It came, from camp-fire's gleaming 
When the night-shades steal o'er all, 
And I heard in my fanciful dreaming 
The coyote's quivering call. 

From waterfalls that flash and glisten 

On their way to the restless sea, 

The lure of the West came calling, 

Calling, clearly to me; 

And sweet mariposa-lilies 

That gem-like bestrew the sod 

Sent out a call, to tell me 

They were straight from the hand of God. 

So I came, and left my dwelling 

On the shore of an inland sea, 

And all the great beauties of Nature 

Revealed themselves to me. 

I found my hope's fulfillment 

Of which I came in quest 

When I left my home in the distant East 

And answered The Call of the West. 

The Casper Tribune. Lilian L. Elgin 



55 



JUST A LITTLE SUNBEAM. 

Just a little sunbeam lighted up the place, 
Fell across the baby's bed kissed his smiling face, 
Rested on the ringlets of tresses shining gold, 
Adding to their luster beauties manif AM. 

Just a little sunbeam through the window shone, 
Lovingly upon a lad, pale and sad and lone, 
Soon the little invalid felt the healing balm, 
On his lips a smile of hope in his soul a calm. 

Just a little sunbeam through the grating fell, 
Cheering up a wayward man in a lonely cell, 
Lingered on his weary face marked by years of 

sin, 
Put new courage in his heart bade him hope 

again. 

Just a little loving from your heart and mine 
Helps to lighten burdens makes the pathway 

shine 
With a warmth and beauty like the sunbeam's 

glow 
Adding to life's happiness everywhere we go, 

Mrs. Henry Armstrong. 
The Collegemlle Independent. 



RETRIBUTION. 

He did not yield her truth for trust ; 

Her faith she buried deep, 
And while it crumbled into dust 

She went to watch and weep. 

To lay fresh flowers upon the mound 
But now wild grasses wave 

Above the long-forgotten ground; 
None knows it is a grave. 

Or does she know perhaps? Alas, 

Indifferently she trips 
Across that space of blowing grass, 
A song upon her lips. 

Mary Sinton Leitch. 
The Boston Transcript. 

56 



THE ABANDONED CABIN. 

Abandoned cabin, broken hut of stone! 

Who knows how patiently, with eager hands, 

Some stalwart built you when the land was young, 

Deserts unplowed, and rivers flowing free, 

Dreaming the while of water in canals 

And meadows lush with harvest, hay in stack, 

Corn in the bin and cattle in the field? 

An empire builder's castle in the waste, 

A shelter for some private in the ranks 

Of that vast army in the wilderness 

Which sowed the seed of cities, broke the roads, 

Vanquished the stubborn sagebrush and made 

green 
Forbidding valleys in a waiting land. 

You scattered fragments! Who once called you 

"home"? 
What hazel eyes once looked through windows 

small 

Eager for "his" return? What babes have cooed 
With rude, home-fashioned playthings on your 

floor? 

Or laughed with some pet puppy on the sill? 
What grand-dad smoked his pipe beside your wall? 

Perhaps in yonder city garden green 
Sits now in ease a wrinkled mother who 
Saw first the light of day within your walls; 
Or maybe near you 'neath some broken cross 
And trampled mound, lies one who once was all 
Your reason for existence and your soul. 

What matters if success were born in you 
Or bitter failure? Happiness or pain? 
You are a milestone on an empire's path 
A hallowed shrine at which pur pampered men 
May pay respect to all the faith and hope, 
Steadfastness, patience, perseverance, which 
Remade the wilderness and built instead 
A land of comfort and prosperity. 

The Idaho Statesman. M. M. T. 

57 



AT THE GRAVE OF A BABE. 

What lies beyond this little, quiet grave, 

Where silvery teardrops fall upon the sod, 
And Love has steeled its heartbeats to be brave, 

Is in the keeping of a Father God. 
No earthly eye has ever rested where 

The dimpled feet are pressing mystic trails; 
No worldly step the stroller's lot may share 

Along strange hills or in bloom-spangled dales. 

The wisest man, the simplest child, before 

This mystery, this still, unbreathing sleep, 
Are equal in their knowledge and their lore. 

The key from both an unseen hand doth keep. 
But Love has signed the passports of this bit 

Of prized humanity our tenderness consigns 
To the great Mother Arms, and it 

Will link this babe with Joy's supreme designs. 

Faith is our cheer where guessing all is vain. 

'Tis only ours to lisp a prayer and trust 
That He who showers blessings like the rain 

Will not forget this gem cleared of its dust. 
And so we deck this tiny mound with flowers, 

Hiding with bud and leaf the crumbling clod, 
Assured that in the Everlasting Hours 

This darling babe will know the smile of God. 
The Sioux City Journal. Will Chamberlain. 

BACK HOME. 

To live is to go on a journey. 

To die is to come back home. 
My shoe soles are thin with wandering, 

Sticky with clay and loam. 
There are marks of stones and of brambles 

Where the leather is scuffed and torn, 
And I must not have walked quite straight, I think, 

For the heels are unevenly worn. 
I shall take off my shoes and sleep and rest. 

(If I dream, shall I dream that I roam?) 
To live is to go on a journey. 

To die is to come back home. 

The New York Sun. May Williams Ward. 

58 



A LULLABY. 

Sleep, little head of the brown curls, sleep! 

Stars through the heavens are roaming, 
Sleep, let thy dreaming be sweet and deep, ^ 

While father comes home through the gloaming. 

Sleep, little eyes of dear wistful gray! 

May God in His great love bless you! 
Here's sister's kiss at the end of the day, 

And sister's fond arms to caress you. 

Rest, little fingers so purely white! 

'Twould seem that sea foam had kissed her; 
0, the wide world holds no gem tonight 

So precious as dear little sister. 

Rest, while the hours go hurrying by, 

Lightly as not to awaken 
Ere shades of night grow weary and die, 

And the stars have the sky forsaken. 

Rest, little one, while the day rests, too! 

Roses are nodding in slumber; 
The moon smiles on in her field of blue, 

While the stars that we can not number 

Wander away through the land of dreams, 

'Till the sun comes back in splendor; 
And up from the sea of golden beams 

Comes the morning, serene and tender. 
The Baltimore Daily Post Eugenie Du Maurier. 

MY BAROMETER. 

Dear Baby, when your smile is gone, 
And pain's tears dim your eyes, 

The light has vanished from^my day 
The sun gone from the skies. 

But when your eyes are bright again 

Your happy song I hear, 
My day is full of sunshine! 

Though the clouds be dark and drear. 
The Deseret Evening News. Ellen B. Richardson. 

59 



DREAM-CHILD. 

Your face 

Is like a half -forgotten dream 

that haunts the memory. 
Your hair 

Shattered angel-wings floating 

on the white breast of dawn. 
Your form 

Sweet passion-fruit 

of Paradise. 
You are 

My first-born dream-child sitting 

in majestic grace upon the 

throne of my inner life. 
Some day 

I shall lose you, but 

then you will be a 

Daughter of Reality. 

The American Hebrew. Herman E. Segelin. 



THE OLD MAPS TO OREGON. 

Their maps, when they had maps, were charted 
well 

With names stretching two hundred miles or 
more, 

For timid wives to read the night before 
The latch-string on the front door slowly fell, 
Leaving them, just a moment, staring hard 

Against the door, as if a door could close 

Tighter the last time than the doors of those 
Who had no prairie wagons in the yard. 

Altho the scrawny legends overlapped 
The wilderness with bitter high deceit, 
Such wives at dusk could still smile when they 

came 

Within a smile or two of what was mapped, 
Dreaming of harbor, while thick oxen feet 
Drummed toward some empty place that had 
a name. 

Thomas Hornsby Ferril 
The Rocky Mountain News. 

60 



PREMONITIONS. 

The red-bird sings in yonder tree, 
And from the hills the echoes ring; 
The robin, too, is on the wing- 
Soon will be heard the chick-a-dee. 

This is the message that they bring : 
"Cheer up, good cheer, good cheer, 'tis Spring!" 
And, so I'll wander out and see! 

The snow and ice are scarcely gone; 

They cover, here and there, the ground; 

And, yet, I hear a mystic sound, 
As stirs the breeze at morning's dawn. 

There seems a restlessness around, 

While hope doth everywhere abound, 
Soft whisp'ring: "Spring is coming on!" 

Ill get me home with heart of glee 
For now I know the word is true; 
And soon the hills in verdure new, 

Adorned with pink and green will be; 
And white, and gold, and red, and blue, 
Will tint a new-born world for you 

And Love will rule on land and sea! 

Herbert Taylor Stephens. 

The Kansas City Kansan. 



POEM. 

The silent sweep of the river, 
The warm caress of the sun ; 

The grass blades all a-quiver 
Where tiny air-waves run. 

Twilight; a catbird singing, 

Small chorister divine; 
A stray bee homeward winging, 

And peace in this soul o* mine* 

Eose cloud and pearl cloud blending; 

Wafture of woodland musk; 
And wonder that's never ending 

Your lovely face through the dusk. 

The Norfolk Landmark. Edwm Carlik 



SONG OF THE RAILROAD TRAIN. 

How grand by night o'er the country side 

Is that wild melodious strain; 
And music blown at the eventide, 

Is the song of the railroad train. 
Its torn strains to our fireside trill 

In the throes of the blizzard blown; 
Or soar on high in the tempest rain, 
So shrill, the song of the railroad train, 

Oe'r the thunder's loud detone. 

Whose lonely cry can the herdsman hear 

In the still 'neath the starry sky, 
As it fades away o'er the prairie drear, 

And the coyote's weird reply. 
The Sioux bent with a startled ear 

When first in the wilds it cried, 
And echoed over the virgin plain, 
So strange, the song of the railroad train, 

And far in the foothills died. 

I've heard that song in the midnight far, 

From the spans of Victoria sound, 
With the rumble of the tubular, 

And the freight to the seaboard bound. 
I've heard it rise from the Vermont hills 

And float in the sunset o'er 
The placid waters of Lake Champlain, 
So plaint, the song of the railroad train, 

And down by the wooded shore. 

We listened once in the twilight shade 

To the trains on the Erie far, 
As they passed with many a blue brigade 

To the fields of the Civil war. 
The whistle blows in the gloaming still 

From the bridge in the Portage glen, 
Like Lincoln's call to the North again, 
You hear the song of the railroad train 

That passed with the Union men. 

The Buffalo Express. Mrs. John Loye. 



TO DREAMERS 

Oh, you who live in the faded past, 

In memories sweet and proud, 
Open your eyes and look about! 
Wake up and live your life-span out; 
On this, our brief sojourn! 

And you who live in the morrow, too, 

In hopes of better things, 
Why doze and dote on silly schemes? 
Why waste today in futile dreams 

Of what tomorrow brings? 

Tomorrow's a day which never comes; 

The past will ne'er return! 
So take with me this solemn vow, 
To live our lives in the new-born now, 
Nor lose one day in sloth's dull slough, 

On this, our brief sojourn! 

The Mill Valley Record. Louis Leon De Jean 



MIDSUMMER NIGHT, 

Memory, 
Keep this night, 
Store up this rapture. 

Moon-dazzle on water, 
Moon-drizzle thru leaves, 
Leaves drooping low 
In gestures of peace 
And quiescence. 

On such a night 
There is no good, 
There is no evil. 
There is only beauty, 
Enveloping all. 

Memory, 
Keep this night, 
Store up this rapture. 

The Chicago Daily Post. 

63 



MUSTANG. 

Chaparral grew you, sagebrush knew you, 
Winds and rains of the plains blew through you, 
Prick-eared, elk-hoofed, ember-eyeballed, 
Mincing mustang, paint-splashed piebald, 
Catamount color or fawn or roan 
By brawling foam of the Yellowstone, 
Under earthquake rock grotesque and high, 
All colors of flame to turquoise sky. 

Mouth of iron in rawhide noose, 
Feather in forelock, mane blown loose, 
A stripe-faced Redskin gripping astride, 
Riding as only the Sioux could ride ; 
Jackrabbit racer, here and gone, 
Trotting the travois down the dawn, 
Wrenching the coulee's wretched grass, 
Snaking by night through the spectral pass, 
Looping the blue-coats' leagured force 
With the whooping braves of Crazy Horse; 

Death where the Big Horn lodges lie 
And troops show black on a brazen sky! 
Death at the river, death on the slope; 
The dark wave breaks on the last mad hope, 
Through the rat-a-tat-tat the hard hoofs drum 
Where the fiend-faced yelling warriors come 
In a mustang rush; the flecked foam flies, 
Wild eyes glare down into glazing eyes. . . * 

Foal of the wild and the mauvaises terres, 
Clamber the lightning's zig-zag stair, 
On purple thunders that loom with doom 
Paw for your pasture and your groom! 
Blood dripped brightly, the quirt fell ^td, 
Withers to rump you are raw-hide scarred. 
Wild was the sortie, black the camp 
Lit by the moon's carved death's-head lamp; 
Fierce were the faces, strong the strain 
That ranged and wheeled on the open plain ; 

But thundercloud dark is the blood-stained West; 
Fade to the stars! It is time for rest. 

The New YorJc Herald Tribune. 

Wttliam Ease 

64 



THE POOR HOUSE ROAD. 

The wild rose blooms in its beauty rare 

Beside the poorhouse road, 
A killdeer's song drifts into the air 

From his brown mesquite abode; 
Rippling, green is the lush new wheat 

Outspread to the rain and sun, 
And the clover is deep and its breath is sweet, 

Where the endless roads out run. 

Oh, here are many who ride away 

To dwell by the shining sea; 
And some go out with a song as gay 

As a wild bird's, clear and free; 
But the rose blooms on by the long gray road, 
Where the broken and hopeless pass, 
And the killdeer sings from his snug abode 

In the waving mesquite grass. 

The Morning Oregonum. Grace E. Hall 



SONG. 

I walked with Thought at eventime, the quiet time, 

the blessed time, 
When all my cares with wings aflame sink in 

the western sea; 
The briar rose was in its prime, its virgin prime, 

its radiant prime, 

And all the air seemed full of song, and subtle 
harmony: 

I sat with Thought to rest awhile, to doze awhile, 

to dream awhile, 
And when I woke, instead of him, I found a 

laughing boy; 
I knew him by his gleeful smile, his tempting 

smile, his winning smile; 
I asked nor name, nor whence he came, but 

rose and walked with Joy. 
The Kansas City Star. Fred Kramer. 

65 



ROAMING. 

Oh, the day was made for roaming, 

And how could I stay a-homing 

When the wind and sun and Pan himself 

Were calling me astray? 
When a locust's endless singing, 
And a golden bird, sky-winging, 
Set my eager feet a-swinging 

Down the road to far-away. 

Oh, the road kept ever twisting, 
And how could I be resisting, 
When a host of yellow butterflies 

Kept coaxing me to run? 
Then along thru woodlands quiet 
Where the Little Folks ran riot, 
To a leafy stream close by it, 

Leafy brown beneath the sun. 

How the willows arched above it, 
How their green lips tasted of it, 
And the small fish seemed to love it 

As they nosed among the stones. 
Then I roamed where winds were blowing 
Thru the evergreens, a-growing 
On a sunny slope, not knowing 

Of the magic in their cones. 

Then I sniffed their browness, thrilling 
At their pungent smell, and filling 
Both my pockets to overflowing 

With this treasure of the trees. 
And although I left at gloaming, 
Yet a part of me stayed roaming, 
For it can not come a-homing, 

Having known the scent of these. 

The Lancaster Intelligencer. Ruth Eckman. 



66 



IN SPITE OF TIME. 

My love for you, in spite of time and change, 
Grows ever upward like a mighty tree; 

So certain 'tis, yet ever new and strange 
It seems to me. 

It seems among those fixed eternal things 
Deep in the bases of existence blent, 

Yet all unseen each passing moment brings 
Its increment. 

And the green growing branches of my love 
With myriad hands reach upward to the blue, 

Lifting me all in all the world above 
In quest of you. 

While sturdy roots strike downward through the 

land, 

Holding to earthly base my reach sublime 
Thus in my love unchanging I shall stand 
In spite of time. 

George Steele Seymour. 
The Jacksonville Daily Journal. 



BARBERRY-RED. 

Barberry, red Barberry, a-smiling in the snow, 
When all the fragile summer blooms are dreams 

of long ago; 
The frosty rime is on your leaf and winter 's sting 

overhead, 
But courage true is ripening your berries* gleam 

of red. 

The pond is frozen silver clear, the sun-dial's 

mounded high, 
With drifted snow-stars glistening beneath a 

leaden sky; 
The little snow-birds chirrup in your sheltering 

cheery halls, 
Barberry-red you light new faith when shrouded 

winter falls. 
The Philadelphia Bulletin. Anne M. Robinson. 

67 



ST. PATRICK'S GIFT. 

The dawn's pale li<rht was stealing soft 

O'er meadow, hill and glade, 
A magic brush had touched the skies 

With tints of wondrous shade; 
The lakes and streams like silver shone, 

The flowers, with fragrance rare, 
Lifted their drooping heads aloft, 

Like children after prayer. 

A flame of gold lay on the crest 

Of Galtee's towering range; 
A little lamb, born with the night, 

Looked wondering at the change. 
The mystic, magic dawn had come 

That brings enchantment's smile, 
But doubly so when it descends 

On Erin's greening isle. 

Out of a peasant's little cot 

There came on fairy feet 
A winsome maid of beauty rare, 

And all the graces sweet; 
Her eyes were blue as Heaven's skies, 

Her hair like raven's wing, 
In dawn's soft light and glow she stood 

A wondrous, radiant thing. 

Last night, around the glowing hearth 

A strange tale had been told 
How good Saint Patrick often came 

To Erin, as of old, 
And whosoe'er he chanced to meet 

When dawn lay o'er the land 
He would endow with some great gift, 

Some blessing from his hand. 

So, with the dawn fair Sheila rose 

And sped to Dunmore Wood, 
And there, with heart a-beating wild, 

On trembling feet she stood ; 
Hoping, yet fearing that the saint 

Would come to her and say: 
"Now, Sheila Elaine, what is the thing 

You wish of me today?" 

68 



But to her listening ears there came 

No sound of spirit wings, 
No creepy, ghostly phantom sounds, 

She heard, but earthly things; 
The chirp of newly wakened birds, 

A rabbit scurrying by, 
The sighing of the passing breeze, 

A far-off curlew's cry. 

Then, just as she had come to think 

The story that they told 
Was but the work of some wild mind, 

Some mortal, fearless, bold, 
She heard a rustling in the brake, 

A ray of dazzling light 
Fell o'er the path on which she stood 

And Patrick came in sight: 

"O maiden of a hundred charms, 

What wouldst thou ask of me, 
What gift that I could bring or send 

Would help to gladden thee? 
To me it seems that you express 

Perfection, true and rare, 
A priceless, peerless, flawless gem, 

A maiden, pure and fair." 

And Sheila, hearing the soft tones 

That fell in cadence sweet, 
Sank down upon the dewy earth, 

And knelt at Patrick's feet : 
"Oh, good Saint Patrick, give to me 

One only gift, I pray 
One great big gift is all I ask 

From you this blessed day: 

"Through all the years that come and go 

I ask that I may hold 
Within the heart and soul of me 

Youth's dreams of shining gold, 
That I may never feel or know 

Time's hand, that seeks and tries 
To kill the laughter in the heart, 

The sparkle in the eyes/* 

69 



Then Patrick smiled a tender smile : 
"Oh, maiden fair," said he: 
"The wish that you have asked and craved 

Is given unto thee; 
From henceforth on to thee and those 

Who follow in thy train 
Age ne'er can kill youth's dreams and joys, 
They always shall remain." 

And so it has been ever since 

In Erin's lovely land, 
Her women never, never know 

Time's blighting, killing hand; 
Youth's sparkle beams within their eyes, 

Youth's dreams and charms remain 
Because the good Saint Patrick gave 

This gift to Sheila Blaine. 
The Kansas City Star. Katherine Edelman. 



MEMORY. 

My smirking little days go by, 
Peddling pinchbeck, sleek and sly. 
With filching fingers that stealthily 
Empty my life of its memory. 

Out of my mind each thievish day, 
Smuggles a token I stored away. 
Dangling dross, lest the theft I see, 
Tending tawdry trumpery. 

Out of my heart they deftly drain, 
Warmth of weeping and wealth of pain, 
Screening the theft with the trade they ply, 
Urging the wares that they falsify. 

Vaunting vanities, thin and cheap, 
Stealing sole treasure left in my keep, 
My days are cheap jacks but what am I? 
Testy and taunting I buy! I buy! 

The Cincinnati Times-Star. Ruth Neeley. 

70 



THE MULE TRAIN. 

Nearer through the forest tangle, 

Comes a jingle, and a jangle, 
And a squeak of rawhide lashings on the load; 

Till a streak of Chinese cursing 

Fit to set the apes rehearsing, 
Brings the mule train round a corner of the road. 

Oh, the lead-mule, bell a-jangle! 

Harness beaded, all a-spangle! 
Giddy beast with crimson pompoms on his nose! 

He's a side-show on a ramble; 

See the swagger in his amble! 
For the other mules must follow where he goes. 

Oh, the yonk dog! For his ratin' 
He's an inky son of Satan; 
Fifty pounds of bob-tailed, crop-eared fur and 

fight! 

Round the hoofs and heels he flickers ; 
Nips the lead-mule when he nickers; 
Ducks the kick, and grins in pitchy-mouthed de- 
light. 

Oh, the muleteers, slyly staring, 
Whistling, slapping, grunting, swearing! 

Yellow faces under three-foot yellow hats. 
His Exaltedness the Leader, 
With his new ten-shot self-feeder, 

Heels in stirrups, on a pile of bedding mats. 

"What's the load the mule train carries?" 
"Tea," he shouts, and never tarries; 
Gazes straight at mulie's sagging, wagging ears. 
Squeak and jangle soon decreases, 
Rise falsetto vocal pieces, 
Where the train with tea (and opium) disappears. 

Jacksonville Daily Journal. Ralph E. Henderson. 



71 



SEASON'S END. 

October's dusk is whispering good-bye; 

Fast, fast now through the autumn's windy 

sieves 
The leaves are sifted, color-drained and wry; 

Upon the summer's loom a spider weaves 
Memorial web, bright jeweled in the rain; 

Across our dismal lawn the lonely birds 
Waver like leaves and bitterly complain; 

(We quiver at our own unuttered words.) 

Summer ended? We do not dare to stir 
For fear the dream be reft, but closely lie, 

Pretending not to hear the ghostly whirr 
Of leaves and wings, and pitifully we try 

To grasp a reassurance of our lot: 
That summer and her blossom fadeth not. 

The Arkansas Gazette. William Spencer. 



I SING MY COUNTRY. 

I sing My Country! 

At my Pullman car window, I rhapsodize 
Upon the panorama unrolling! 
Mighty cities, lush prairies, opulent farms, moun- 
tain wilderness, and wide, unpeopled plains. 

I am lately come from Europe full of odious com- 
parisons and pity 

For Americans who do not appreciate their coun- 
try. 

I have been sightseeing abroad 

Only to find the most thrilling sights at home, 

Sights eloquent, significant, without parallel ; 

Bathtubs galore; 

Bricklayers driving to work in flivvers; 

Silk shod ankles of girls 

Whose mothers, barefooted, tilled in Calabria; 



72 



Rural postmen unloading newspapers, magazines. 

books, mail order luxuries; 
Acres of Fords parked round the new national 

movie house (two shows nightly) ; 
Everywhere masterful, expansive, bluff, breezy 

men; 
Untrammeled, self-reliant women, comely and 

garbed smartly in the mode, 
Whether it be in 5th ave., Omaha, or far Truckee; 
A farmer jolting homeward with the latest phon- 
ograph record, 

His wife telephoning for three cards of tulle; 
That blithe company of youth boarding the train 

at Mandan 

Telling how they danced last night 
To the music of a Chicago orchestra 
Wafted by radio; 
Twenty, mayhap, thirty, million people listening 

to the President speaking. 

I celebrate my country's greatness, its vastness, 

its exuberant fruitfulness, 
The sense of which has entered into the souls of 

us, 
Instilling large notions, prodigality, recklesness, 

yea, bumptiousness, 

I glorify the American dollar and dollar chasing 
So despised in mendicant Europe, where, if you 

drop a dollar, 

You start a riot in which monocles are broken. 
Soon enough shall we, with mouths multiplied, 

be forced to scrimp, 
To save every twig and crumb, thrifty as French, 

Then shall we have done with chasing dollars 

And shall chase pennies as they chase farthings 
and centimes over there. 

I have been sped an hour, seeing no human, only 
cattle, 

How glorious a roomy land, room to turn around 
in without jostling! 

Europe is crowded to suffocation, Asia is over- 
flowing; 

They turn covetous eyes to our unoccupied ex- 
panses; 

73 



We envision the day when we shall need to hedge 

our borders with bayonets 
To keep out smuggled immigrants. 
Japan lets the cat out of the bag: 
War, if necessary to break down our wall 
Europe says Amen, changing the league's pro- 
cesses 

To suit the purpose 
And still blandly bidding us enter the league. 

Good, mushy men arise among us 

Outraged at any thought of girding for defense, 

Shall men, they ask, presume to say who shall and 

who shall not 
Tenant God's acre? 
Nevertheless we will gird 
To keep our soil for our kind. 

I sing my country. 

Arthur Sears Henning. 
The New York Daily News. 



A THOUGHT IN CHURCH. 

Through dim stained glass 

The tempered daylight steals; 
The congregation bows, in padded prayer, 
Before the flower-laden altar where 

The silk-robed ministrant intones and kneels; 

Upon the perfumed air the organ peals 
Ah, what if Christ Himself should enter there, 
The weeping Magdalene with streaming hair, 

And all his rough disciples at His heels? 

Would we not stare and stir uneasily, 
If such a motley crew, one so unfit 
To enter, should be ushered in to sit 

Beside us in our cushioned piety? 

Might He not come and sorrowfully go 

From us, His worshipers . . . and we not know? 

The New York Sun. Rosette Mercier Montgomery. 



74 



MY BROTHER AND I. 

We carved our names on the old beech tree, 

My brother and I, 
Up from the pasture gate, ah me, 
On the fairest hill of greening May, 
When life was rosy and so gay, 

My brother and L 

We saw the world so far away, 

My brother and I, 
But we proposed to climb some day 
To highest peak of that fair land, 
And win for us a name to stand, 

My brother and I. 

We viewed this record's greatest aim, 

My brother and I, 
As symbol of the highest fame 
To which men can attain, somehow, 
In this great world of Here and Now! 

My brother and I. 

Thirty-two years have passed us by, 

My brother and I, 

Since we for fame's high mark did sigh. 
The record we can dimly see 
As we stand by the dear old tree, 

My brother and I, 

Talk not to us of Hall of Fame, 

My brother and I, 

Nor of names writ in glowing flame! 
No higher record can we see 
Than carvings on the dear old tree, 

My brother and L 
Masonic Home Journal. H. H. Fuson. 

POETRY. 

Poetry is the muse that lodges welcome, though 
unbidden, 

In our minds and then, 

Flowing outward, onward, worded melody un- 
hidden, 

Sings for mortal men. 

The Baltimore Daily Post. Eugenie Du Marnier. 

75 



TO THE FIGURE ON MY MANTEL. 
(Thoughts As I Smoke.) 

Funny little 

Pot-bellied 

God! 

For you men have left their warm homes 
To drag their feet through clinging marshes; 
For you men have slit the throats 
Of stolid inoffensive neighbors. 

The magistrate 
Has bowed his head, 
The potentate 
Has paled in dread. 

And I, 

Superior product 
Of a later race 
Sit here before you 
Blowing smoke, 
Tobacco smoke 

Full in your face! 

* # * 

Here where I hesitate 
Thumbing the pages, 
You sit and concentrate 
Wrapped in the ages. 
What if I chance to find 
Secret of words to stress 
That which the yearning mind 
Aches ever to express? 
Then in my victory, 
Near to my God the while, 
Will you sit silently 

Or will you smile? 

* * * 

You are as a riddle without an answer 

Resignation turning its back on history, 

Patience with all time behind you, 

Unconcern in the face of facts. 

You are very wise to be so calm 

Or else 

A thing of clay! 

The Oakland Tribune, Addison B. Schuster. 

76 



THE CEMETERY BESIDE THE TRACK. 

How close beside the buried glide the trains 
For living folk, who shudder so and dread 

The fleeting glimpse of green and vacant lanes, 
The peaceful habitation of the dead. 

Unsatisfied forever, while they flit 

From place to place in quest of wealth and ease, 
They shun the station or the sight of it 

To which tliey daily travel by degrees. 

Here sleep the ones who wait for trains no more, 
Except the last, which all may hope to take 

To reach the promised Heaven and explore 
The peace for which their souls were made the 
stake. 

Tho Life run ever east or ever west 
Its roads converge in this metropolis; 

What find we here but God's most perfect rest, 
And no respect for pomp or prejudice? 

Whether we dread or welcome the releasing, 
Whether or not we may that hour foresee, 

Life's tide of emigration, never ceasing, 
Graveward sets its course eternally. 

The Jacksonville (III) Daily Journal 

John Kearns. 



CONFLICT. 

I am a landsman, scared of the sea 
Life is an unkind Mother to me. 

Fear of the ocean keeps me ashore 
I who could live on sailormen's lore! 

Somewhere in that land lineage of mine 
Some roving seaman entered our line. 

Oh, I could curse me sometimes I do 
Fearing the sea, and loving it, too! 

Schooners in harbor, fog rolling in 

How they have stirred that something within! 

77 



Rain-blackened pavements far from a ship 
Whisper of sea nights . . . decks all a-drip. 

Even the mountains, mantled in mist, 
Hint of a call that I can not resist. 

Blood of my fathers battles in mine 
Most of it landboundsome of it brine. 

I am a landsman, scared of the sea 
Fighting the magic hidden in me. 

The New York Times. S. Omer Barker. 



AT THE ODEON. 

We came early, being simple souls 
Who hate the hurried crush and rush 

That always comes to those arriving late. 
Nor do we court the solemn hush 

Announcing late arrivals in fine gowns, 
That put our beaded blouses to the blush. 

We came early, and while waiting watched 
The other simple souls who came 

To hear the famous Chaliapin sing. 
Came early, like ourselves his name, 

Suggestive of the brooding Russian airs 
That helped him win the singer's crown of fame. 

We came early; so did they who sat 

Before us in the concert hall, 
A pair of lovers there across the aisle, 

A father, mother, sons so tall, 
Thin, sexless, aging women with bobbed hair, 

Intent on bulky programs one and all. 

We came early, and at last were heard 

The tender notes, exulting, loud, 
Of violin with its most human cries. 

Of sorrow, love and courage proud, 
And then the splendid singer raised his voice, 

And hushed to silence was the listening crowd. 

Jane Francis Winn. 
The St. Louis Globe-Democrat. 

78 



THE RESURRECTION OP DENVER DAN. 

Where the West begins there's many a man 
Can tell you the story of Denver Dan ; 
He lived in the hills in a cabin quaint; 
(He wasn't a sinner, nor he wasn't a saint), 
Jes' happy-go-lucky as the winds that blow, 
When the war broke out an* he had to go. 
But soon he returned (a different man) ; 
A coffin held all that was mortal of Dan. 

"Them features are his'n," said his own little gal ; 

"I guss I know daddy, for he was my pal." 

"Accept his insurance/' the war office said; 

"We've looked up his record, and of course he is 

dead/' 

When, sufferin' mackerel, what should they see, 
But Dan comin' home like he'd been on a spree! 

"How come?" said his neighbors; "we thought 
you had died/' 

"Well, maybe I did, but I'm back/' he replied; 

"An' jes' fer to show you it's me that's on deck, 
Here's the wart on my thumb I was born with, 
by heck!" 

"It's true," said his daughter; "I've played with 

it often;" 

So to get at the facts, they dug up the coffin* 
Some people affirm the birthmark was there 
When the coffin was opened; to this they will 

swear, 

While others, when questioned, vehemently say 
A bullet had carried the wart thumb away. 
So out in the West, where the friendships are 

stronger, 
Where bronchos are busted and shadows grow 

longer, 

Where people are truthful, there isn't a man 
Can tell you exactly what happened to Dan. 

The Rocky Mountain News. John C. Wright 



A BOY'S SONG ON CIRCUS DAY. 

Hip, hooray, for circus day! 
Am I happy? I should say! 
Yes, the circus is in town, 
With its elephant and clown; 
With its monkey and its bear; 
With its lion in his lair; 
With its tricky riding mule 
Not from any riding school 
Lincoln Brothers circus show 
Plays today you bet I'll go. 

Break of day, on Walnut Street, 
Saw me up, the show to greet. 
Say, my heart was filled with joy, 
And the heart of ev'ry boy 
Danced around his breast, I think, 
When an el'phant stopped to drink 
From a trough of water, where 
I was standing, in the square, 
With a crowd of boys and men, 
That big elephant drank, and then, 
When he quit and off did trot 
Down the street and to the lot 
Where the circus show is held 
Up I threw my hat and yelled . 

To the circus grounds I ran, 
And a big, fat circus man, 
Standing there, in dewy grass, 
Told me I could earn a pass 
If Fd help him Well, you see, 
That was just what suited me. 

So I helped him and his men, 
Toting poles and seats, and then, 
When we got that circus built, 
From his vest this card of gilt 
He pulled forth and gave to me 
"Pass one boy/' it says just see! 
Gee, but ain't there lots of class 
To this pretty circus pass? 
The Albany (N. Y.) Evening News. 

Sam J. Bcmks. 

80 



"I HEAR IT SAID." 

Last night my friend he says he is my friend- 
Came in and questioned me. "I hear it said 
You have done this and that I come to ask 
Are these things true?" 

A glint was in his eye 

Of small distrust. His words were crisp and hot, 
He measured me with anger, and flung down 
A little heap of facts had come to him. 
"I hear it said you have done this and that." 

Suppose I have? And are you not my friend? 
And are you not my friend enough to say, 
"If it were true, there would be reason in it 
And if I can not know the how and why, 
Still I can trust you, waiting for a word, 
Or for no word, if no word ever come!" 

Is friendship just a thing of afternoons, 

Of pleasuring one's friend and one's dear self 

Greed for sedate approval of his pace, 

Suspicion if he take one little turn 

Unto the road, one flight into the air, 

And has not sought you for your Yea or Nay? 

No. Friendship is not so. I am my own. 
And howsoever near my friend may draw 
Unto my soul, there is a legend hung 
Above a certain strait and narrow way 
Says, "Dear my friend, ye may not enter here!" 

I would the time had come as it has not 
When men shall rise and say, "He is my friend. 
He has done this? And what is that to me? 
Think you I have a check upon his head, 
Or cast a guiding rein across his neck? 
I am his friend. And for that cause I walk 
Not overdose beside him, leaving still 
Space for his silences, and space for mine." 

The New York Times. Barbara Young. 



81 



A BURMA BELLE. 

After tiffin when Mah Chit Yin 

Dresses up to make a call, 
Flapper girls across the ocean 

Haven't any show at all. 

Blazingly in silks she flashes, 

Radiant with rainbow dyes; 
When the sunlight flashes on her, 

Suddenly you shade your eyes. 

Twinkling ears adrip wtih rubies; 

Gold about her slender wrists; 
Round her neck a chain of pendants 

Diamonds and amethysts. 

Hair as black as stormy midnight, 

Glossy with an oil veneer, 
With a lovely yellow orchid 

Perching just above her ear. 

Slippers rhythmically flapping 
Make her shuffle when she walks; 

Voice like bells at the pagoda, 
Tinkles sweetly when she talks. 

Neck and cheeks are soft and creamy, 
Rubbed with dust of sandalwood; 

Crimson lips from juice of betel 
You would kiss her if you could. 

I can love her, I adore her 
Till she lights her long cheroot; 

Then I'll beg her to excuse me 
Time has come for me to scoot. 

Jacksonville Daily Journal. Wayne Gard. 



82 



PETTIT LAKE. 

I must be off to the mountains, 

I must go forth from the town, 
From the stifling streets and the trodden beats 

And trifles that crush me down. 
The chair on the porch calls softly 

I know, but I can't resist 
The voice of the trees and the mountain breeze 

And the tow'ring peaks, sun-kissed. 

I must be off to the lakeland, 

I must drink deep of June, 
Adrift, afloat, in a little boat, 

Humming a lazy tune. 
The shadow under the mountain! 

The ripples that dance and play! 
The beckoning lines of whispering pines ! 

Ah, I must up and away. 

Stay in your crowded city, 

Sit in your movie show, 
There are ices to sip with thirsty lip; 

But I must pack up and go. 
Where I'll drink in the cool of the morning 

And laugh at the rosy dawn, 
Philosoplnze as the bacon fries 

And grin and stretch and yawn. 

The Idaho Statesman. M. M. T. 



PRAYER. 

Measure me, Father, I pray, 
When the last hour is spent, 

Not by the deeds of the day, 
But by the dreams that I dreamt 

Measure me, God, by my songs, 
Weaklings, that they may be, 

Measure me, not my my wrongs, 

But the man I tried to be. 
The Springfield Republican. Arthur Wilson Eddy. 

83 



TWO SONNETS. 
L 

White is the light that with effulgence gleams, 
Along the path that leads to hills and streams, 
Where youth is lured through fragrant woodland 

dells 

By the enchanting tones of distant bells 
That ring anon their silvery chimes of hope 
To cheer the pilgrim toiling up the slope. 
New heights are reached and still the urge to go, 
Ever upward to crests all white with snow. 
Shifting scenes and changing move swiftly by, 
And soon are lost forever to the eye. 
Youth calmly views the evanescent scenes, 
And reckons not what all their passing means. 

II. 

Again with languorous eyes the path is swept, 
To view the height where often youth had kept 
Its rendezvous. Alas, the eyes are dim, 
The knees grown stiff, the hand has lost its vim! 
No more the chiming of the bell is heard, 
And hushed the music of the woodland bird. 
A fluttering of wings on sighing breeze 
An ominous shadow slowly palls the trees 
The tinkle of a cowbell from afar, 
An icy mantle shrouds the evening star ; 
A cold light swings a moment through the gloom, 
And falls to silence near the somber tomb. 
The Jeffersonian. James Carl Crowson. 

MAGIC. 

When the days are very long 
And the night draws near, 

I will sing for you my song, 
Hoping you may hear. 

Tho' you're in a distant land 

Love will waft it there; 
Then, dear, you will understand 

The magic in the air. 
The Detroit Free Press. Clara Miehm. 



84 



HIS STAR IN THE EAST. 

Eager lips so soft and warm, 

End your searching and be at rest, 

Be forgetful of mother's breast, 

Cuddle to sleep on mother's arm: 

(Empty breasts in a feasting world. 

Husks and straw where His form lies curled!) 

Sleep forget the hunger and cold ; 

Son, a ring on my hand could win 

Shelter and warmth and food at the Inn 

Better a ring than a purse of gold. 

(Empty breasts in a feasting world. 

Husks and straw where His form lies curled!) 

The Albany Democrat. Sarah Hammond Kelly. 



ASHES* 

Think, my soul, 
Of the disenchanted 
Days you have brought me! 
Days wrought with beaten silver and steel 
Burned with red flame of sandal wood and laurel 

boughs, 

Take back the chisel, 
The spear blade, 

You have hammered the pattern all in. 
Give back the ivy-leaf pattern of my bridal veil, 
Give back the unshed tears the dreams the 

kiss 

Only defeat and silence. 
Drenched, mangled and torn by aftermath and 

blinding rain, 
I heap knots of fir, pine cones and pine pitch on 

the fire, 
I blow on it, 

I shiver like wind-rocked aspens give back the 
noonday heat. 

Millieent Davis DiUey. 
The Springfield Republican. 

85 



TWILIGHT. 

The sweetest hour of the day 
Is the hour of waning light, 

When evening shadows first appear, 
And day sinks into night. 

The night-birds call; soft lullabies 

Blend in one rich strain. 
Unequaled in all melody 

Is their sweet, sad refrain. 

Tis the hour of rest and relaxation, 

For toilers in life's marts 
Renewing hope, and faith and courage, 
In weary, fainting hearts. 

The twilight hour brings retrospection 
And recount of joys past 

A pleasure that shall retain its savor, 
As long as life shall last. 

The Daily American Tribune. Belle M. Blair. 



BOY. 

Gladness has gone from the gay house 
That listened to your boyish tread. 

Each trifling thing you touched awaits your 

hand 
Your ball, your cap, the book half read. 

Dear boy adventurer, you go 

No tired traveler seeking rest, 
But resolute, aglow with life, athrill 

To all the magic of your quest. 

And they who love you must conceal 

In Sorrow's sanctuary deep, 
The wild, dumb longing while the gate o' dreams 

Swings as their lad smiles in his sleep. 

The Chicago Tribune. Grace B. Starbuck. 

86 



AN EPITAPH. 

She was too delicate to give or take 
Life's rough ripostes face its vulgarities; 
Too proud to yield in base compliances 

To its demands ; she would not deign to make 

Concessions, for her own advantage sake, 
To the dark gods of Favor; or appease 
Success, Life's lackey, with a lackey's fees 

Her alabaster, box she would not break! 

Life's wine, for her, must pass a finer sieve 
Ere she would taste its sweetness she dis- 
dained 

To quaff or lift its chalice ... all unstrained! 
And so ... she passed, who would not stoop to 

live 

Serene, aloof, and smiling now, she lies . . . 
Death asked of her to make no compromise! 

Roselle Mercier Montgomery. 
The New York Times. 

THE BRIGHTEST GROWN. 

There are crowns for conquering heroes, 

There are crowns for bard and sage; 
For the men whose names are written 

Upon History's varied page; 
There are crowns of gold and iron, 

All too often stained with blood 
But the wonderst crown and grandest 

Is the crown of Motherhood. 

There is beauty in the city. 

In the rose is beauty, too. 
And the violets are charming 

In their little bonnets blue; 
There is beauty in the garden, 

There is beauty in the wild, 
But the sweetest thing in Nature 

Is a little tender child. 

Arthur Goodenough. 
The Brattleboro Daily Reformer. 

87 



THE OIL FIRE. 

The lightning strikes, a sudden blinding flash 
Of forked fire, a rending tearing crash, 
A deafening roar that shakes the very ground, 
A sharp report, a sudden crackling sound. 

The tank is struck! The mounting flames leap 

high 

In wild fantastic light against the sky 
The strong steel crumples writhing in the heat 
Twisting grotesquely. Savage heat waves beat. 

In furnace blasts along the reeling air, 
The oil fields lit and crimsoned with the glare 
In wild unearthly beauty. Heavy, low, 
The black smoke hangs above the sullen glow. 

In rolling clouds with red flames bursting through, 
The whole earth has a burning crimson hue. 
The curious crowds that gather in to gaze 
In half -awed silence watch the great tank blaze. 

In devastating splendor. Far and wide 
The sullen smoke hangs low on every side. 
The giant tank boils over, everywhere 
A boiling flood of flame. The scorching air 

Is blistering, blinding; seething torrents flow 
In red cascades of flame. The savage glow 
Of molten metal smoulders, twisted, scarred; 
The oil-soaked ground is blasted, burned and 
charred. 

All that remains to show the great fire's track 
Is smouldering ruins, shriveled, seared and black. 

The Daily Oklahoman. Violet McDougaL 



88 



TO MOTHER. 

On my desk a tiny clock 
With recurrent clicking shock 
Counts the moments as they fly. 
Eound and round the tiny hand 
Marks the falling of the sand; 
Whirling, ticking, see it go! 

There's another hand, and slow; 
Scarcely moving there at all 
To the hours' passing call. 
I am but the second's beat 
Aimlessly my restless feet 
Carry me apart from you, 
Seeking wider ways and new. 

Out across the world's great face 
Swiftly youth has set its pace; 
Swift and far my pathway leads- 
Dim and far the past recedes. 

Yet I know that I shall come 
With the swinging pendulum 
Back to meet with you again 
As the hands that circle, twain; 
As the circling clock-hands do 
I shall meet again with you. 

Harry Noyes Pratt. 
The Mill Valley Record. 

THE TOPIC OF THE HOUR.* 

It seems to me I can't forget 

My much-beloved and long-lost phone. 

I talk upon this one, but yet 

It seems to me I can't forget 

The operator's voice. I fret 

And listen for the "dial tone." 

It seems to me I can't forget 

My much-beloved and long-lost phone. 

* On the installing of automatic phones in Seattle* 

The Argus. Helen Emnw Maring. 

89 



MOTHEE 

How long it seems since I were pressed, 
A little child, to my mother's breast; 
The while she sang sweet melodies 
Of babes asleep in the lofty trees! 

Or asked of God in the hush of night 
To blaze the trails in the after years, 

That my steps might lead me to the light 
And spare me the knowledge of bitter tears. 

****** 

Long now she lias lain in peaceful sleep, 
And the trees o'er her resting place swing deep, 
Weighed down with the cherished dreams I hold 
Of a mother more precious than all the world's 
gold! 

The Buffalo Express. Ralph Reid Rice. 



CANDLE GLOW. 

When night comes down to softly dim 
The mellow sunlight in the room, 

I draw the curtains and keep out 
The shadow and the gloom. 

I light the candles and the glow 
Steals o'er the supper board and all 

The ruddy hearth-fire flaming bright 
Lights up the floor and wall. 

For all within a home should be 
Sacred to family life and way, 

Safeguard from the world outside 
When ends the busy day. 

Not open to the public gaze 
Through unlatched door or pane, 

But hid away for near and dear 
At candle glow again. 

Florence Van Fleet Lyman , 
Springfield Republican. 

90 



THE TRUE CROSS. 

I stood "mid my fellows in sunshine, and shade, 

The birds knew me. 
I enjoyed my life every season that came, 

Though only a tree. 

But they cut me down, in a day, from my strength. 
In a cross of wood they made me at length. 

Then a noble figure they laid on me 

Of Him they lied! 
And the nails that pierced Him went through me 

And His blood ine dyed. 
And His weight was borne by a shamed tree 
But the love of His heart even reached to me 

On my breast He died! 

The Buffalo Express. Phoebe A. Naylor. 



A LITTLE GREEN LANE. 

A Little Green Lane goes through my Mind, 

A Lane that my Heart runs back to find; 

A Lane where the air is cool as dew, 

And the ferns are high and the rocks are few, 

And every branch of the tallest tree 

Would whisper a fairy tale to me, 

And every bird had a golden note 

In the song that came from his crimson throat, 

And Life had a hundred gifts to give, 

And I had a hundred years to live. 

A Little Green Lane goes through my Mind, 
A Lane that my Heart runs back to find 
My Heart f or never my feet will go 
To walk that Lane that I used to know, 
For maybe my eyes would fail to see 
The Vision that Memory holds for me, 
And I'd miss the fairy tales I heard, 
And the song of the crimson-throated bird. 
So I'll keep the dear unbroken spell 
Of the Little Green Lane I love so well 

The New York Times. Nan Terrell Reed. 

91 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Because through years of wandering 
Your heart has followed all my ways, 

Beyond distrust or questioning, 
In gratitude I hymn your praise. 

Because your faith, unreconciled 

To failure or adversity, 
Believes me yet a little child, 

I celebrate you reverently. 

Because your love has held so sure, 
So uncomplaining and complete, 

Where all love else is insecure, 
I lay this tribute at your feet. 

Miriam Allen de Ford 
The San Francisco Examiner. 



PAKAYLE. 

She bloomed one day, not so long ago, 
This little flower of the Chickasaw tribe, 
Beneath the note of her tinkling laugh, 
Like plaintive strains from a ukelele, 
I catch the sound of a sobbing breath : 
"I meant to grow in cool woods untamed, 
"But find myself in the city's glare." 
So spoke the Indian maiden, Pakayle. 

The thought behind her sweet, dark eyes 
Is weirdly pleading, though words have ceased. 
"Like a flower/' Pakayle means in the musical 

tongue, 

Of a merging, not a vanquished race. 
Though measures they gain of hothouse charm 
The pain of their gain is with them still 
Uprooted from fragrance of woodlands dense, 
They lose in natural and modest grace. 

Virginia Smyth Nolen 
and Bertha Heiderich Wallace. 
The Healdton Herald. 

92 



THE APPARITION. 

I saw, one day, the saddest sight 

Mine eyes had ever met, 
And when I think of it at times 

Both cheeks and eyes are wet! 

It was no sight of blood or wounds 

That I reflected saw; 
No scaly dragon spouting flame 

Awoke my soul to awe! 

No virgin suffered nameless wrong 
At hands of Hun or Goth, 

No sufferer entreated Death 
While Death to come was loth! 

There came no skeleton to wave 

His fleshless arms at me; 
No demon from the pit appeared 

With threats of misery. 

Not famine and not pestilence 

Uneasy made my mind ; 
Not even scowling Nemesis 

Assailed me from behind! 

I gazed into the looking glass 

(Lord send me heart of grace!) 
And looking soberly on me 
I saw an old man's face! 
The Springfield Republican.Arthur Goodenough. 

YULE-TIDE ECHOINGS. 

Listen to the midnight chimes, 

Singing out upon the air; 
Every heart is stirred, betimes, 

In the throbbing strains to share. 

There are thoughts that with the chiming blend, 
Yule-Tide wishes that all sorrows end; 

Faith renewed in all that's good and true, 

Bringing all that's best in life for you. 
The Santa Rosa Republican. Ada Kyle Lynch. 

93 



WINDS OF APRIL. 

Blow softly, winds of April, blow, 
And bring the song the bluebirds sing, 

And spicy smell of greening woods, 
And scent of plum trees, blossoming. 

And bring the sound of lowing herds, 
And bring the glow of sapphire skies, 

And breath of purple violet, 

And simple, woodland melodies. 

And where the sun-shot shadows lie, 
And solemn pine trees sadly wave, 

Oh, gently, gently, April winds, 
Sigh softly o'er a little grave! 

The ArJcansas Gazette. J. A. Morris. 

VANITAS VANITATUM. 

We used to see her hobbling down the stoop 

And calling "Kitty, kitty!. . 

With her kind, foolish face all anxious wrinkles. 

She lived in two cluttered rooms of a squalid 
house 

With five gaunt cats; 

An ignorant, tender woman, 

Mortally stricken. 

And after Death's peace had found her 

We went in 

To pack her things for some far-off, careless 
cousins. 

Such poor, untidy roQms and the lean cats glow- 
ering! 

Such shabby furnishings and so little food ! 

But everywhere we found dainty lingerie hidden, 

And rouge, and powder; false hair and cheap 
perfumery, 

"The silly old thing!" exclaimed a neighbor 
roughly . . . 

I think she had only striven to keep some beauty 

Lest he should return the husband who had left 
her. 

The New York Sun. Jennifer Stewart. 

94 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 

Do you think I love fairies 

And rainbow colors bright? 
Do you think beauty tarries 

With me from morn to night? 
You sit content and fearless 

At rest upon my knee, 
A gleam of transcience peerless 

As folded wings can be. 

Now closed, now open, closing 

Yes, I see your fair wings, 
A transcient dream reposing 

A glint of heavenly things, 
You want a poem? Give me 

Forever and a day; 
Your beauty will outlive me 

Ah! gone away sweet fay! 

The Mill Valley Record. Lynas Clyde Seal 



MARS APPROACHES. 

Great Mars approaches, an eternal flame, 
As red as blood, as silent as some soul 
Which feels that isolation keeps it whole. 

From out the depthless infinite it came, 

The soundless, deep-blue night it's wondrous 

frame, 

And climbed to heaven's height as to a goal. 
And Beauty shared its mystic high patrol, 

And rhythm, that mute music, gave acclaim. 

When you and I the way of life have trod, 
And through life's lessons earned a clearer day 

Still in its awesome orbit, Mars unmarred, 
Will grandly move in its appointed way; 

Still souls on earth will reach up to their God, 
Still : "Mars, a flame, approaches/* men will say. 
Virginia Nelson Farmer. 

The Nashvitte Tennessee^. 

95 



I LOVE MINORITIES. 

I love the company of minorities. 

That little group of friends of Socrates 
Who came to him that final dragging night 
Four hundred years before the guiding light 
Of heaven illumed the Bethlehem hills, 
A sacred spot within my memory fills. 

1 love the company of minorities. 

I love the company of minorities. 

With poor Columbus that lone Genoese 
My spirit would have traveled scoffing Spain, 
For, oh, the gleam within that visioning brain, 
Was kindling far-strung beacons for a world 
A timid, doubting, shackle-making world. 

I love the company of minorities. 

I love the company of minorities. 

I choose for my soul-leaders such as these 
That singing boy of Eisenach, whose bread 
Was won by streetside lyrics, but who led 
As fearless Luther, breaker of old chains, 
A handful up to millions by slow gains. 

I love the company of minorities. 

I love the company of minorities. 

Galileo, in that cathedral of Pisa's, 
Dreaming and thinking while the rabble jeer, 
Still, though the centuries separate, is dear 
To my heart. Dust are the throngs that laugh and 

shun, 
But laggard Pisa, who's your deathless son? 

I love the company of minorities. 

I love the company of minorities. 

I note Domremy's maiden's hand release 
The shepherd crook, and with burning sword 
Lead forth the men of France, by her zeal stirred, 
And then I see Arc's pleading eyes uplift 
Until the flames blur all with deadly drift 

I love the company of minorities. 



96 



I love the company of minorities. 

I see the Prince of Peace with sorrowing eyes 
Gaze on the hounding masses the human flood 
That rages blindly for his sinless blood. 
For life, unfolding to me as I plod, 
Links the scorned few in fellowship with God. 

I love the company of minorities. 

The Sioux City Journal. Will Chamberlain. 

LOOKING UPWARD. 

You who grovel in life's valley, 
Laden with the fear of things, 

Shut off by obstructing mountains, 
From the views which greet earth's kings. 

You who tawdry pleasures worship 

Or who indolently sleep, 
Rouse yourselves, ascend the mountain; 

Of the breath of life drink deep. 

Gird your loins for a struggle, 
As the way is steep and long; 

Perseverance will be needed, 
And a purpose pure and strong. 

Frightful passes, rough, mist-hidden 
Steeps to mount against the gale, 

Slips and bruises, wild beasts, darkness, 
Cause the stoutest heart to quail. 

Now and then lif e*s sweetest flowers 
Cheer you on your upward flight, 

And beyond the peaceful valley, 
Spring up visions that delight. 

Onward, upward, ever climbing, 
Keep a faith that naught can stop, 

"Till triumphant glories bless you 
OH the sun-kissed mountain top. 

If you must retrace some footsteps, 

Never from the vision part, 
Which the grandeur of life's mountain 

Has inspired within your heart. 
The Conway Weekly News. Fred W. Attsopp* 

97 



HOSPITALITY. 

I place the great log on the andirons so! 
The fires all laid, and ready for the match, 
The moment the first guest shall lift the latch. 
It would be such a waste, tho north winds blow, 
To keep a fire when I'm alone, you know. 
So, shawl-enwrapped, in the dim room, I snatch 
A half-hour nap, or stitch a thrifty patch, 
Or darn a stocking, in the candle glow. 

A footstep at the door, the log's aflame, 
There's incense burning in a yellow jar, 
There's light and laughter; with my gayest 

smile 

I greet my friends I am so glad they came; 
(How long the nights, to lonely women, are!) 
There's life and joy o'erflowing, for awhile. 

Sarah Hammond Kelly. 
The Albany Sunday Democrat. 



PARADOX. 

Life, now and then you do 

A very funny thing; 
Say when you gave me 
Feet that would dance, 

And a heart to sing. 

Then you #ave me a burden of sorrow 

That weighted low 
My dancing feet to the dust 
And my heart, crushed, 

No song could know. 

Oh, Life, it had been to me 

Less sad a thing, 
With the load to drag 
My weary feet, 

If my heart had not learned to sing. 

The Gulf port Herald. Francis M. Lipp. 



98 



"HOME TO YOU." 

0, the day's been sad an' weary 
Everything's been goin' wrong; 

Didn't feel a bit like workin', 
Couldn't even sing a song. 

Watched the clock since early mornin', 
Gosh, how slow the old thing went! 

Somehow I felt blue an' lonely 
An* I wasn't worth a cent. 

Then I heard the quittin' whistle 
I was waitin' when she blew, 

An' it made me happy, knowin' 
I was goin' home to you. 

0, 1 ain't a bloomin' poet, 
But the things I say are true 

When the long day's work is over 
An' I hurry home to you. 

The Boston Post. Watty DeFrelance. 



MASTER OF HIS DESTINY. 

He went Ms way with clearly visioned poise, 
Saw that most things were either good or bad 
According to the attitude he had 

Toward them. Thus he ever faced his joys 

As well as grief that peace of heart destroys, 
With calm assurance, and looked on the sad 
As well as that of intimation glad, 

As things wherewith some mystic powerd toys. 

He himself that way in authority found 
At every situation, could command 
Whatever dared assume the upper hand 

And tried to keep him in subjection bound; 
Disarming thus misfortune ere it scored 
And proved no pawn of destiny, but its lord. 

Milwaukee Sentinel Peter Fandel 

99 



THE KIDDLE OF THE SPHINX. 

A sign and wonder In old Egypt lies, 
Mute, impervious, it commands the plain, 
A tortured desert starved of dew and rain, 
Unbounded save by sand and rimming skies ; 
The traveler from afar its form descries, 
And ponders, its strange meaning to obtain, 
Demands to know its riddle, but in vain, 
For to his questioning no voice replies. 

That hybrid form, with body, brain and wing, 
Depicts man's growth, portrays the spirit's 

birth, 

In process through the ages since the Fall ; 
A beast, a human, then spiritual being, 
That contacts God, transcends the finite worth 
Unveiling dim divinity in all. 

The Oakland Tribune. Selina Burston. 

HEART OF MINE. 

Oh, heart of mine, I know thy fitful fires, 

Leap like fanned flames o'er wind-blown autumn 

lea; 
I know thy swelling passions feverishly 

Heave like tempestuous chaffings of the sea. 
Yet who can say thou art too passionate? 

Tumultuous fervor wells up at the wrong, 
Which preys untrammeled on downtrodden men, 

Still sanctioned by the contumacious strong. 

Could but thy fires glow with unquenchable light, 

Which flares not up and leaves the world still 

dark; 
Could but thy passions move on like the tides, 

Not like faint ripples from some drifting bark! 
Oh, heart of mine, charred embers, too, I see 

On trails, where scorching flames unguarded 

spread; 
And wreckage also looms up on the shores 

From which I seaward overboldly sped. 

The Springfield Republican. Edward Gruse. 

100 



FREE. 

A CHANTY OF THE PRISON OF THE UNSEEN BABS. 

The President plans to call the American people out from the 
four-wall prisons of homes and offices to the Great Out-of-Doors. 
Press Dispatch. 

Oh, the 'man ivho once is free, 
On the land or on the sea f 

A free man is he, ship or shore. 
Nor chains can make a slave, 
While your soul rides on the wave 

Or camps mid the peaks evermore. 
****** 

They've shut me up here in this prison 
No; you can't see a bolt nor a bar; 

The light shines in broad at the window; 
The winds wander in from afar. 

Yet my prison it is, closely wardered. 

My feet are made fast in the stocks; 
The pay-check, out there at the wicket, 

A gaoler, hard-hearted as rocks. 

The lash of the task is upon me; 

Like Samson, I grind at the mill; 
Or forth to their Temple of Dagon 

They hale me to pleasure their will 
****** 

Me? No; I'm not shut in their prison. 

Me? No; the lash never strikes me. 
I'm free as the moose in the forest; 

As birds in the welkin, I'm free. 

For, once, I knew seas, plains and mountains 
Their breath's in my nostrils, allwhere; 

I hear yet the surge off Agulhas; 
I feel Cape Stiff's ice in my hair. 

I heard and there's never forgetting 
The Trades tug the stuns'ls amain 

And the yell of the gale to the cro-jack 
I'm hearing them always again. 



101 



So, while the taskmasters surround me 
And prod me with dollars, like goads, 

And whether the crowds praise or threaten, 
I'm free from their cheers, jeers and loads. 

I laugh, for I'm cracking- on canvas 
And taking it green o'er the bow, 

The while they are lashing my burthen 
And boasting they've harnessed me now. 

There's never a wall can inclose me 
A fig for the task with its threat 
I'm riding the limitless ranges; 
I'm climbing the high summits yet. 

****** 
For the man who once is free, 
On the land or on the sea, 

A free man is he, ship or short,. 
No chains can make you slave, 
While your soul rides on the wave 
Or camps mid the peaks evermore. 

William P. F. Ferguson. 
The Franklin News-Herald. 



BLIZZARD. 

Gaunt gray trees like etchings 
Stiff on a steel-blue sky 
Billowing hills in the garden 
Piled, piled high. 

Stars and white swan feathers 
Swirled by day through the town, 
Night brought barbs from the sky-bow 
Shivering, quivering down* 

Morning brought who can describe it 
Splendors to dazzle the eyes 
All things locked in a soundless 
White, white paradise. 

The Chicago News. Mildred Fowler Field. 

102 



MY STORM SPRITE. 

She brings the cool, clean scent of pine trees on a 

hillside, 
Also, carnation's fragrant spice from hearts of 

crimson, 

Into my stutty attic room above the housetops, 
She is the tang of frost, transmuting red to golden, 
Or wintry sunshine, finding gems in drifting snow- 
banks. 

Refreshing as the cold, damp smell of rain in 
summer, 
My Storm Sprite comes to me. 

We break the iron bands that fetter longing, 
And prison free, we sail on ships of cloudy fleece 
To far-off ports, with streets of silence, and Doges' 

castles. 

Our trusty wings, with "Dusty marts of men for- 
gotten," 
Bear us to highest tops of mountains green, for 

resting. 

'Tis easy to fulfill the Venice of our visions, 
When my Storm Sprite comes to tea. 

The Maud Monitor. Virgina, Smyth Nolen. 



FAMOUS AUTHORS. 

Kipling sang of Tommy Atkins, 

And Kilmer sang of Trees; 
John J. Ingalls of green Grasses, 

And Opportunities. 

Eugene Ware of Washerwomen, 

And Field of Boys in Blue; 
John McCrae of fields in Flanders, 

And Seeger, Rendezvous. 

Whitcomb Riley sang of Sweethearts, 

And Hay of Little Breeches; 
Old Walt Whitman sang of Captains, 
And Poe of weird witches. 

Henry Polk Lowenstein. 
The Excelsior Springs Call 

103 



A VERMONT AUCTIONEER. 

Whene'er an auction bill I see 

On barn or hayscales, bridge or tree, 

Or stuck outside the village store, 

Or tacked against the gristmill door 

I wonder if the auction game 

Is played the same, or 'bout the same, 

As in those days of youthful cheer 

When Albert Burk was auctioneer. 

His lefthand eye had quite an ail, 

But he could see enough to nail 

The nod or wing or shoulder shrug 

That sold the family pung or plug; 

The only time he lost a bid 

Was when he stopped to shift his quid; 

If he was living now and here 

The wise would say, "Some auctioneer." 

It took a man to act as clerk, 
When stuff was auctioned off by Burk; 
I've seen him sell a farm and stock 
And get all through by two o'clock. 
One time he sold for Mason Flower 
Jest sixty things in jest one hour; 
He always run on the top-notch gear, 
Al Burk, my boyhood auctioneer. 

He'd hold a bedpost up and say, 
"Now, ladies, kindly step this way 
I'll bet you all a pound of gum 
No wingless beast has ever come 
Within a mile, yes; call it two, 
Of this fine bed I'll sell to you; 
I'll guarantee it won't go dear, 
Bid up and help the auctioneer/' 

Whate'er he tried to sell he sold, 
He turned some awful truck to gold ; 
The things that wouldn't "leave the shelf." 
He made a bluff to buy himself, 
And when he sold a widder out 
His pay was only half, about; 
The Universalists fur and near 
Was proud of Burk, the auctioneer. 

104 



He taught Hank White his merry trade 
And so his own successor made; 
Each year his fame, a rising tide, 
Embraced new towns on every side. 
*Tis said that as his end drew on 
They heard him whisper, "Going, Gone!" 
Thus sans reproche and void of fear 
He lived and died an auctioneer. 

Daniel L. Cody. 
The Brattleboro Daily Reformer. 

COUNTY FAIR. 

Now will this green turf lose its splendid cloak, 
Shorn of its grass by restless, tramping feet; 

Feet that are weary of the stubble-fields 
And the sting of summer heat. 

The flapping banners on the snowy tents 
Intrigue this curious throng of prairie folk; 

The fairground smells and sounds have charm for 

him 
Who has shed the toiler's yoke. 

For here he sees the horse that drags his plow; 

The cow that gives him food; the cock that 

crows; 
Here he is filled with pride because of corn 

Which has ripened on his rows. 

Here he may see brown loaves his women baked ; 

Gaze upon fruit more luscious than his own 
See ripened grains that grew on hillside soil 

Where his neighbor's seed was sown. 

This is a time for red and green balloons, 
Jockeys in colors, raucous trumpet shrieks; 

Women that walk tight ropes in spangled gauze 
And clowns with their chalky cheeks. 

This is a holiday for toiling ones; 

Hay has been cut and stored within the mow 
Barley and oats are safe within the shock 

And man needs a playtime nowl 

Jay G. Sigmund. 
The Cedar Rapids Gazette. 

105 



AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING. 

A good old Hebrew prophet in Isaiah, Chapter 

Three 

The time, about three thousand years ago 
Bemoaned the way the women made themselves 

a sight to see, 
And prophesied that it would work 'em woe. 

In China stylish ladies plucked their eyebrows 

thin and long 

It's been a thousand years or more, I find 
And solemn yellow Chinks averred that such a 

stunt was wrong, 
And ladies doing it were unrefined. 

Old Chaucer, in his famous tales, tells all about 

a dame 

Whose dress looked like a field of fancy flowers ; 
He kids her for her vanity with pretty much the 

same 
Old line of bunk we use in razzing ours. 

The writer Joseph Addison, in seventeen thirteen 
Put out an essay on "The Female Neck." 

He said that shocking ladies let too much of it 

be seen, 
And such exposure should be held in check, 

It's not been sixty years since Lowell raised a 

kindly howl 

About the "half " they used to call "full dress." 
When beauties showed their shoulders saintly 

men put on a scowl 
It did a lot of good, now don't you guess? 

1 . i 
It isn't long since letters from the boys who went 

and fought 

Would now and then express a shocked sur- 
prise 
At how the Froggie damsels wore their skirts so 

very short, 

Though some of us kept mum and filled our 
eyes. 

106 



The guy who reads the headlines in the papers 

of today 

Can always find where someone takes a crack 
At modern woman's lip-sticks, powder puffs and 

scant array, 
Especially the way she bares her back. 

"A Pastor Hits at Fashions Says 'Our women 

should be taught 

The evils of flesh stockings and bare knees/ " 
The dear things smile, for they intend and I 

am sure they ought 
To just go right on dressing as they please! 

The American Legion Weekly. S. Omar Barker. 

THE SHINING STORY. 

So often told through ages long 

Has been the Christmas story, 
In prose, in verse, in lilting song 

And yet its pristine glory 
Shines brighter with each coming year, 

And each repeated telling. 
Its halo glows through doubt and fear 

For it is joy compelling! 

The Virgin Mother, holy, sweet, 

Who bends above the manger, 
And noble Joseph, at the feet 

Of Him he guards from danger; 
The simple shepherds on the hill, 

And the angelic strain 
Does to this day each bosom thrill 

As it is told again. 

The very words that tell the tale 

Seem to have little wings. 
Not white, but like a rainbow sail 

That happy cargo brings. 
The red of hope; the living green; 

In blue a star of gold- 
Illumine radiantly this scene 
That never can grow old! 

Mary Tarver Carrott. 
The Montgomery Advertiser* 
107 



SEA DEVILS. 

When the fishermen spread out their nets to dry 
In the warmth of the summer sun 
In the sweep of the wind neath the open sky 
Where the starlings wheel, and the sea gulls cry 
They tell strange stories of days gone by 
And things they have seen and done. 

They tell of adventurous storm-tossed lives 
Of days when they had to hew 
The fog apart with their scaling-knives 
Till their fishing boats nosed through. 

There were mermaids that fastened upon their 

lips 

To suck out their dying souls; 
There were winged sea-harpies that followed 

ships 
And lured them on to the shoals. 

There were sea-bom devils that lay in wait 
To capture their human prey 
They dragged them down to a terrible fate 
Far off from the light of day. 

They tangled the anchors and clogged the oars 
They conjured the black storm-clouds 
And ships were guided to devil-shores 
While devils wailed through the shrouds. 

There are charms that the old witch-woman sells 

So the devils are kept away, 

Though no one believes what the old crone tells, 

Yet we buy her pebbles and queer shaped shells, 

And we learn to mumble her magic spells 

For its best to be safe, they say. 

The New York Times. Violet McDougal 



108 



MY GARDEN. 

Out in my garden are beautiful flowers, 

Growing from year to year; 
Flowers of friendship, flowers of love, 

All these I ever hold dear. 

Far back in the days of the long ago, 
When into this garden I came, 

There was many a glorious, beautiful bloom, 
That today is blooming the same. 

Annuals, perennials, many perpetuals 
Some grow in the heat and some in the cold ; 

Some bloomed but an hour, some but a day, 
While others bloomed only when old. 

But many a gorgeous bloom I found 

Soon did wither and fade; 
Some in the sunshine only would live, 

While others throve best in the shade. 

I learned to sow, if a harvest I'd reap, 

And watch with tenderest care 
That after showers, my beautiful flowers, 

Had sides that were sunny and fair. 

Good seed, good culture, and the richest of soil 
If I'd gather the very best bloom, 

Poor seed, poor soil and carelessly sown, 
Could bring to me nothing but gloom. 

Under dark clouds, and under fair skies, 
I've ceaselessly worked with a will, 

That all of the seed I've carefully sown 
My garden of friendship may fill. 

And now as I stroll in my garden so fair, 

With Memory guiding me thru, 
I pluck the choicest of all my flowers, 

And find, dear friend, it is you. 

Your growing friendship ever Til prize, 
And ask in your garden a spot, 

To sow seed of a flower of diminutive size, 

Just a little "forget-me-not" 
The Oklahoma Mason. Annette Blackburn EMer. 

109 



THE OX-TEAM. 

There were red leaves, and dead leaves, 

Upon the Southern trees; 
And Spanish moss a-swaying 

In the softest winter breeze. 

There were sweet winds, and fleet winds 
That swept .across the swamp, 

But I loved the patient ox-team 
That came with stately pomp. 

Such a long pull, and strong pull, 
Their legs sunk to their knees. 

I never dreamed a team could pull 
The weight of twenty trees! 

Then the road turned, the load turned, 

The wagon rolled along, 
And I heard a Southern darky 

Quit his "Gee! Haw!" for a song! 

There were red leaves, and dead leaves, 

And hanging Spanish moss, 
And a mockingbird a-singing 

Where th' wild winds swept across. 

But that lone team, that roan team 
That tramped those woodland ways, 

Brought memories of sweetness 
From youth's dead yesterdays! 

The Times-Picayune. Marshall Louis Mertens* 



REMEMBRANCE. 

I shall hang about your neck a chain of frozen 

raindrops 
And when love has warmed your heart into full 

bloom 
These cold jewels will melt and pour over your 

radiant body 
Reminding you of tears that I have shed. 

The Times-Picayune. Ray Valentine. 

110 



ANGLER. 

I go a-fishing 

With a willow rod 
In a still river 

By a field of God. 

Sometimes the sinker 

Is a leaden grief, 
Sometimes the bait is 

Shadow of a leaf. 

Few the soft splashes 

On a sunny day, 
The circles widen mostly 

When the skies are gray. 

Even when returning 
With no shining string, 

I have watched the water 
And heard the thrush sing. 

Isabel Fiske Conant. 
The Greensboro Daily News. 



TIDES. 

Here upon the shore I listen 
To the waves that beat the strand; 

And I see the constant glisten 
Of the many-sided sand. 

Comes the thought: my life is swaying 

Like the tides below my feet, 
Back and forth. Despite my praying, 

Failure and success I meet. 

Yet I trust, like tides of ocean 
Should I leave the highest bound, 

God will give me back devotion 
Till His pardon I have found. 

If the ebbing tide receding 

Symbol is of woe or sin, 
Surely grace for us is pleading 

When the flowing tide comes in. 

The La Jotta Journal Frederick M. Steele. 

Ill 



UNHASTE. 

We who have looked on beauty and had sight 

Of light beyond the vortices of light; 

We who once irrevocably heard 

In mystic word 

Past hearing's power 

Voices of an immutable hour, 

We shall no more be humers. No breathless 

bringers we 

Of some bright arrow-flying ecstacy. 
For we have flung into Time's wolfish face 
Our quiet challenge from an eternal place. 
We can afford to wait 
Early or late 

It may be now or in ten thousand years that pass 
As in a looking-glass 

The quest shall be attained. It matters not at all. 
Who follow the horizon's kingly call 
The while the clown-wit centuries dully go 
Their singing selves shall know 
And know and know and render still the song. 
Their very dust shall endlessly belong 
To that which surely lives. The intimate tides, 
The comrade-breathing wind that rides 
Through death to life all things that move and 

flow 

And win to life past death and deeply know 
Boundlessly know the things no man can tell 
Yet in him knows full well, 
These shall companion us. We shall be safe at 

last 

Where only dangers are safe having passed 
Confining shores to where the Seven Seas call 
Childhearts, remembering all. 
And when our foolish dust is blown from star 

to star 

We leaning far 

Shall laugh to seem so strangely dead 
Drinking the wine of life, eating her bread. 

The ttfew York Times. Mary Siegrist. 



112 



THE MEDICINE WHEEL. 

(Anthropologists have puzzled over a prehistoric emblem con- 
sisting of a perfect circle of rocks 74 feet across, apparently ar- 
ranged by human hands on Bald Mountain hi the Big Horns. It 
is called the medicine wheel, and is possibly an ancient place of 
worship.) 

On a lofty peak of the Big Horn range 

The wind-swept slopes reveal 
A relic that centuries does not change 
Nor wind nor wanderer dis-arrange 

The Indian Medicine wheel. 

In the golden glow of long ago 

Did a bronzed old warrior kneel 
With bare arms raised to the sunset glow, 
He prayed the secret of Life to know 

And for knowledge bless and to heal. 

And while the chieftain prayed for a sign, 

A whirlwind swept the peak, 
And arranged the rocks in strange design 
To be evermore a healing shrine 

For the Indian tribes to seek. 

A circle true was all criss-crossed thru 

In a manner bound to appeal 
To a savage raised in wild ways 
As he prayed to the sign whereon he gazed, 

The magical Medicine-wh6eL 

The Indian braves the emblem found, 
And they gather for woe or weal. 
And the war drums sound by this hallowed ground 
As with bended backs all dance around 
The historical Medicine-wheel. 

From the rocks a rustling whisper comes 

Like the stir of moccasined feet. 
And the broodiner silence sometimes hums 
With the roll of the partridges muffled drums, 

Where the war drums once did beat. 

The Inland Oil Index. Roy Churchill Smith. 



THE COMING 0' SPRING. 

When the winter snows are melting, 

And the cold northern winds depart, 
When perfume-laden air of spring 

Stirs primeval joy in the heart, 
New life awakens within me 

And growing each day more strong, 
Bids me follow and wander free 

Where my soul is wont to long. 

With the rushing of the rivers 

And the passing of dark gray clouds, 
With the first fair wind that quivers 

The new born buds within their shrouds, 
Nature calls with all her powers 

That instill in the hearts of men 
Love of the streams, wilds and flowers, 

Luring me back to live again. 

Then come leaves of feathery green 

Dainty, fairy-like fans of spring, 
The tinted maple's magic sheen 

Nature's brush on everything, 
Painting the fields, hills and hollow; 

Then my tired, care-worn mind awakes 
And at last I joyfully follow 

The stream where the speckled trout breaks. 

The Detroit Free Press. J. Roy Zeiss. 

A SESSHU PRINT. 

Tis nothing but a landscape 

By an oriental seer; 
A thing of crags and torrents, 

And a river with a weir; 
A fisher in a flat-boat, 

A temple roof afar 
And pines above the willow tree, 

And mountains and a star. 

But the artist had a secret 
And he's left it now with me; 

The fisher isn't fishing 
He's just drifting lazily. 

The Austin American.- Jekn 

'" 114 



SEA GULL. 

What world lies deep in your wings, gray gull? 

What ultimate beauty is this you bring 

As though a sculptor's hand had suddenly reached 

out 

And fashioned you 
As though the eternal lovers 
Had somehow uttered you? 

But hark! What frozen cry is this that you shrill 

to the skies 

Remote and alien and unsatisfied? 
One with the restless swirl of green waters, 
One with the shreds of torn vapors, 
One with the wind-blown spray, 
One with the dim unconscious aeons when God 
Was a hunger of beak and claws. 
Oh, come not near! .... 
And break a dream of inner loveliness. 
But now wings slowly come to rest upon the 

sand 

Hard eyes look hungrily 
A yellow beak with its red stain of blood 
Tear's horribly at a cod's mauled head. 

What wild hard things speak from your yellow 

. eyes? 

The mist is a kindly thing, the sea has -a com- 
forting word 

But you you are rapacious incredible things . . . 
You are a part of the inherent malice of life 
That has torn out the hearts of the mystics 
And fashioned the crosses for prophets. . . . 

Will you nevei* cry God, gray gull? 
Will you never learn love at all? 

0, wings that are made of the sunrise and .mist, 
Of far clean reaches of sea and sky, 
Will not the cry of some child alone in "the night, 
Not' the unending' heartbreak of* lovers, . 
Not desolate homes nor the cry of the mothers 
Avail -to. feshioiffor ybii a 

115 



When man shall have garnered the whole of him- 
self, 

And can look on your greed with a pitiful eye 
Will love draw you into its circle at last? 
Or will the monotonous moan of the sea 
One day compel you utterly 
And what will you cry in that hour? 
What will you be, gray gull, when the sea 
And the sky and love have their way with you? 
What beautiful thing will you be? 
The New York Times. Mary Siegrist. 



SONGS TO GHOSTS. 
I. 

(I MAY GO.) 

There's a stalwart ghost with curly hair; 
His chest is broad and his throat is bare 
And I'll go with him if he's waiting there 
Where the hill drops down to the river. 

And up on the river road we'll pass; 
His feet will whisper in the grass 
And we'll steer to the mountains' distant mass 
Where the springs flow down to the river. 

From the other side we'll send back a song 
Where the ghost and I and the others belong, 
You will hear when the river floats it along; 
For our song will come down with the river. 

EL 

(I SHOULD ENJOY A TRIUMPHAL KBTURN.) 

And the trackless path of the Northern Lights 
May be the final road I take 
When I at last come home; 
They will loom and play and shake 
Above the arm of Norwottuck and Nonotuck 
That nudges the meadow with its crook, 
is tipped. by the torch of Tom. 

iie 



In a rapid silence I'll be bound, 
And turban'd like a polar king; 

In the formless chariots 
111 be riding with Chaos and fling 
A mocking song at the roaring world I once 

thought still 
A song of the half -moon's golden thrill 

And the full-moon's leaden spots. 

III. 
(THERE IS A DIFFICULTY ABOUT GOING.) 

There's a silver ghost with hair unbound; 
She loves to walk in the fields, white-gowned, 
And she sleeps in a country palace, uncrowned, 

For want of a king for a lover, 
And she is free when the sun comes up 
And keeps her so till the hour to sup 
When she puts a smile in the goodnight cup 

To strengthen the heart of her lover. 
She took a sick world and made it whole; 
For her and for me she has won free toll, 
For the world she heartened is kind to her soul 

And kind to lover and lover. 
The Springfield Republican. Edward Richards. 



THANKSGIVING. 

We thank Thee, Lord, and render praise 
For many gifts and length of days; 
For benefits and joys apace, 
For happiness by Thy good grace, 
For friends and kindred and for home 
That we, like many, need not roam 
Afar in alien lands. We greet 
With thankful hearts our Lord We meet 
In reverent communion sweet, 
To bow before the mercy seat. 
All that we are or have we bring 
With thankful hearts to our great king. 
We praise and thank, rejoice and pray 
On this our own Thanksgiving Day. 

The Kansas City Star. Mary R. Ellis. 

117 



INDEX 

I express my gratitude and obligations to the 
following publishers and authors for the material 
used in this book. 

THE ALBANY DEMOCRAT, Albany, Ore. 
The Promise Kept, Oscar H. Roesner 30 

Mr. Roesner was born in Denver, Colo., 1874. Edu- 
cated at the State Normal School, Chico, Calif., ana 
the University of California. Farmer and writer. In- 
terested in poetry, sociology, hunting and fishing. 
Home, Live Oak, Calif. 

Hospitality, Sarah Hammond Kelly 98 

His Star in the East, Sarah Hammond Kelly 85 

THE ALBANY EVENING NEWS, Albany, 

New York. 
A Boy's Song on Circus day, Sam J. Banks . . 80 

THE AMERICAN HEBREW, New York, N. Y. 

Dream-Child, Herman E. Segelin 60 

Illumination, Arthur Guiterman 9 

Impression, Herman E. Segelin 53 

Sentence at Parting, Mabel J. Bourquin. ... 13 
Wet Pavements, Louis Ginsberg 28 

THE ARDMOREITE, Ardmore, Oklahoma. 
Gleanings from an Oil Town, Bertha Heide- 
rich Wallace 54 

THE ARGUS, Seattle, Wash. 
Out of the Jade of the Sea, Helen Emma 

Maring . 15 

The Topic of the Hour, Helen Emma Maring 89 

Helen Emma Maring (Mrs. Theodore B. Samsel) 
was born in Seattle, M/ash. Educated at the Univer- 
sity of Washington. Has to her credit 340 published 
poems. Editor of "Muse and Mirror/' a journal or 
verse She has been represented in each annual vol- 
umn of this Anthology. Home, Seattle, Wash. 

119* 



THE ARKANSAS GAZETTE, Little Rock, 

Arkansas. 
Winds of April, J. A. Morris 94 

Mr. Morris was born in lola, Kansas. He is a rail- 
road roadmaster. His poems have been widely copied, 
and some have been set to music. Home, Dermott, 

Arkansas. 

Season's End, William Spencer 72 

THE AUSTIN AMERICAN, Austin, Texas. 
A Sesshu Print, John Emmett 114 

THE AMERICAN LEGION WEEKLY, New 

York, N. Y. 

As It Was in the Beginning, S. Omar Bar- 
ker 106 

Mr. Barker was born in Beulah, New Mexico, 1894. 
Educated at Normal University, Las Vegas, New Mex. 
Professor of English in same. Poet and short story 
writer. Home, Los Vegas, New Mexico. 

THE BALTIMORE POST, Baltimore, Md, 

A Lullaby, Eugenie Du Maurier 59 

Poetry, Eugenie Du Maurier 75 

Woodrow Wilson, Nelson Robins 25 

THE BALTIMORE SUN, Baltimore, Md. 
Preserve the Shot Tower, Gay Walton Banks 51 
The Shot Tower of Baltimore, Marie Briscoe 

Croker 52 

The Shot Tower Speaks, William James Price 51 

Mr. Price was born in Oaking^on, Mel* 1875, Man- 
ufacturers' Agent. Founder Verse Writers* Guild of 
Maryland. Editor of "Interludes/* a journal of poe- 
try. Home, Baltimore, Md. 

THE BRATTLEBORO DAILY REFORM, 

Brattleboro, Vermont. 

The Brightest Crown, Arthur Goodenough. 87 

Mr. Goodenough was born at Brattleboro, Vt., 1871. 
He is a farmer and writer, the author of several books 
of poems. Home, West Brattleboro, Vt. 

A Vermont Auctioneer, Daniel L. Cady 104 

120 



THE BOSTON POST, Boston, Mass. 
"Home to You," Watty De Frelance 99 

THE BOSTON TRANSCRIPT, Boston, Mass. 
Gibralters, Oliver Jenkins 41 

Mr Jenkins was born in Boston, 1901. Author of 
"Open Shutters." Home, Danvers, Mass. 

Moon of May, Lewis Worthington Smith. . . 37 

Mr. Smith was born in Malta, 111., 1866. Educated 
at Beloit College, Fairfield College, Cotner University. 
He is a member of the faculty of Drake University. 
Author of textbooks, serials, and poems. Home, Des 
Moines, Iowa. 

Retribution, Mary Sintdn Leitch 56 

Winter Jassamine, Mary Sinton Leitch 37 

Mary Sinton Leitch was born in New York City, 
1876. Educated at Smith College, Columbia Univer- 
sity, and in France and Germany. Books: Transla- 
tion of "The Love Letters of Bismarck," "The Wagon 
and the Star." Home, Lynnhaven, Va. 

THE BUFFALO ENQUIRER, Buffalo, N. Y. 

Thanksgiving, Edward J. Denneen 18 

The Woodland Depths, Edward J. Denneen. 32 

THE BUFFALO EXPRESS, Buffalo, N. Y. 
Mother, Ralph Reed Rice 90 

Mr. Rice was born in Buffalo, N. Y., 1884. He has 
written many poems, some of which have been widely 
copied. Home, North Tonawanda, N. Y. 

Song of the Railroad Train, Mrs. John Loye 62 
The True Cross, Phoebe A. Naylor 91 

THE CASPER TRIBUNE, Casper, Wyoming. 

The Call of the West, Lilian L. Elgin 55 

The Deserted Mill, Lilian L. Elgin 47 

THE CEDAR RAPIDS GAZETTE, Cedar 

Rapids, Iowa. 

The Town of Green Windows, MacKinlay 
Kantor 9 

Mr. Kantor was born in Webster City, Iowa, 21 years 
ago. Occupation, newspaper. Home, Webster City, 
Iowa. 

The County Fair, Jay G. Sigmund 105 

121 



THE CHAMPAIGN NEWS GAZETTE, Cham- 
paign, III 

The Sweethearts of '61, Jack Lawder 27 

Mr, Lawder was born in Scioto County, Ohio. Oc- 
cupation, merchant tailor. Author* ''Editorials in 
Verse." Home, Champaign, 111. 

THE CHICAGO NEWS, Chicago, 111. 
Blizzard, Mildred Fowler Field 102 

Miss Field was born at Oxford Junction, Iowa. Vio- 
linist. Her interests are music, nature and literature. 
Home, Cedar Rapids, Iowa. 

THE CHICAGO POST, Chicago, III 

Midsummer Night, Zeno 63 

Woodrow Wilson, Thomas Curtis Clark 22 

Woodrow Wilson, William Crellin Kenyon 24 

THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE, Chicago, 111. 
A Bugle at Belleau, Louis of the Lafayette. 13 
Boy, Grace B. Starbuck 86 

THE CINCINNATI TIMES-STAR, Cincinnati, 

Ohio. 
Memory, Ruth Neeley 70 

Ruth Neeley (Ruth Neeley France) was born in 
Covington, Ky. Newspaper woman. Reporter on the 
Times-Star. Home, Covington, Ky. 

One Tree, George Elliston 17 

Miss Elliston was born at Mt Sterling, Ky. Edu- 
cated at Covington (Ky.) High School. On staff of 
the Times-Star. Author of books of poetry. Home, 
Ft. Thomas, Ky. 

Our Dead, Alma O'Neill 3*5 

Alma O'Neill (Alma O'Neill Plata) was born in Cin- 
cinnati. Actress and Author. Niece of James O'Neill, 
Cousin of Eugene O'Neill, the playwright Home, Cin- 
cinnati, Ohio. 

THE CONWAY WEEKLY NEWS, Conway, 

Arkansas. 
Looking Upward, Fred W. Alkopp. 97 

122 



THE COLLEGEVILLE INDEPENDENT, Col- 
legeville, Pa. 

Just a Little Sunbeam, Mrs. Henry Arm- 
strong 56 

THE DAILY AMERICAN TRIBUNE, Du- 
buque, Iowa. 

Twilight, Belle M. Blair 86 

THE DAVENPORT DAILY TIMES, Daven- 
port, Iowa. 
Huddlestun's Bridge, MacKinlay Kantor. . . 15 

THE DENVER POST, Denver, Colo. 
Crossing the Desert, E. Richard Shipp 38 

Judge Shipp was born in Petersburg-, 111., 1864. Grad- 
uate Georgetown Law School, 1885. Author; "Inter- 
mountain Folk," "Rangre Land Melodies.' 1 Lawyer, 
Reader. Lecturer. Home, Casper, Wyo. 

THE DES MOINES REGISTER, Des Moines, 
This Pale White Rose, MacKinlay Kantor. . 29 

THE DESERET NEWS, Salt Lake City, Utah. 
My Barometer, Ellen B. Richardson 59 

Mrs, Richardson was born in Salt Lake City, She 
is interested in poetry and music and in her home- 
work. Home, Sandy, Utah. 

THE DETROIT FREE PRESS, Detroit, Mich. 
The Coining o' Spring, J. Roy Ziess 114 

Mr. Ziess is a native of Detroit. Poet and short 
story writer. Home, Detroit, Mich. 

Magic, Clara Miehm 84 

THE EXCELSIOR SPRINGS CALL, Excel- 
sior Springs, Mo. 

Famous Authors, Henry Polk Lowenst&in. .103 

Judge Lowenstein was born in Monroe County, 
Tenn. Author of "Memorial Poems." His poems have 
been widely copied. Home, Kansas City, Mo. 

123 



THE FRANKLIN NEWS-HERALD, Frank- 
lin, Pa. 
Free, William P. F. Ferguson 101 

Mr. Ferguson was born in Delphi, N. T. Educated 
at Drew Theological Seminary. Editor. Author of 
many works on prohibition. Home, Franklin, Pa. 

THE GREENSBORO DAILY NEWS, Greens- 
boro, S. C. 
Angler, Isabel Fisk Conant. . . , Ill 

Born in Wellesley, Mass. Author of "Many Wings," 
Home, New York City. 

THE GULFPORT HERALD, Gulfport, Miss. 
Paradox, Francis M. Lipp 98 

Mrs. Lipp was born in Webster, Kansas. Educated 
at Colorado College, and the University of Louisiana. 
Home, Shaw, Miss. 

THE HEALDTON HERALD, Healdton, Ok- 
lahoma. 

Pakayle, Virginia Smyth Nolen and Bertha 
Heiderich Wallace . . 92 

Mrs. Nolan was born in Eufaula, Okla. Her inter- 
ests are Indians, human nature and the oil fields. 
Home, Healdton, Okla. 

THE IDAHO STATESMAN, Boise City, Idaho. 

The Abandoned Cabin, M.M.T 57 

Pettit Lake, M. M. T 83 

THE INDIANAPOLIS STAR, Indianapolis, 

Indiana. 
A Boy, Walter Greenough 49 

THE INLAND OIL INDEX, Casper, Wyo. 
The Abandoned Ranch, Roy Churchill Smith 42 
The Medicine Wheel, Roy Churchill Smith. . 113 

THE JACKSONVILLE DAILY JOURNAL, 
Jacksonville, 111. 

A Burma Bell, Wayne Gard 82 

124 



Hollyhocks, Wayne Gard 36 

Sanford Wayne Gard was born in Brocton, III., 
1899. Educated at Jacksonville (111.) High School, and 
Illinois College (A. B.). Spent some time in Burma on 
the faculty of the Gushing- High Schoo*, at Rangoon. 
At present a member of the faculty of Northwestern 
University, Chicago. Home, Evanston, 111. 

In Spite of Time, George Steele Seymour. . . 67 

Mr. Seymour was born in Jersey City N. Y., 1878. 
Accountant and Lawyer. Founder of "The Order of 
Bookfellows," an international organization of lovers 
of fine books and better literature. Founder and past 
president of the Empire State Society of Chicago. An 
authority on fine book making. Home, Chicago, 111. 

The Cemetery Beside the Track, John Kearns 77 

Mr. Kearns is a member of the faculty of the Illi- 
onis Woman's College. Member of the Bookfellows, 
and literary editor of local papers. His poems have 
appeared in the leading poetry journals and maga- 
zines. Home, Jacksonville, 111. 

The Mule Train, Ralph E. Henderson 71 

Mr. Henderson graduated from Harvard in 1921. His 
present home is at Kengtung, in northeastern Burma. 

THE JEFFERSONIAN, Atoka, Oklahoma, 
Two Sonnets, James Carl Crowson 84 

Rev. Crowson was born in Sheridan, Ark, 1890. Min- 
ister. State Chaplain American Legion. Educated in . 
Oklahoma Baptist University and Southern Methodist 
University. Author of a book of poems. Residence, 
Carnegie, Okla. 

THE JEWISH TRIBUNE, New York City, 

New York. 
The Wandering Jew, P. M. Raskin 50 

THE KANSAS CITY JOURNAL-POST, Kan- 

sas City, Mo. 
The Warrior Passes, Hubert Kelley. 44 

THE KANSAS CITY KANSAN, Kansas City, 

Kansas. 
Premonitions, Herbert Taytor Stephens 61 

THE KANSAS CITY STAR, Kansas City, Mo. 

Autumn, Henry Polk Lowenstein . 46 

December, Lowe W. Wren 30 

Mr. Wren was born in Axtell, Kansas, 1885. He is . 
a #ee lance writer. . Home. JCansa City* Ho. 

,126 



Song, Fred Kramer 65 

St. Patrick's Gift, Katherine Edelman 68 

Mrs. Edelman was born in County Tipperary, Ire- 
land. She is the author of many poems that have 
been widely copied. Some of her poems have been set 
to music, and one has been sung for Hctrola records 
by Madame Homer. Home, Kansas City, Mo. 

Thanksgiving, Mary R. Ellis 117 

The Dingy Street, Lenna Williamson 52 

The Token in the Sky, Lowe W. Wren 40 

THE KANSAS CITY TIMES, Kansas City, 
Missouri. 

Wild Flower Time in Kansas, Robin A. 
Walker 39 

Mr. Walker was born in Shelton, Neb. He is an 
architect. Poet Laureate of Kansas. Home, Eldo- 
rado, Kansas. 

THE LA JOLLA JOURNAL, La Jolla, Calif. 
Tides, Frederick M. Steele Ill 

Mr. Steele was born in Albany, N. Y. Educated in 
New England. Retired. For years a National Offi- 
cer of the Mayflower Society. Home, Los Angeles, 
California. 

THE LANCASTER INTELLIGENCER, Lan- 
caster, Pa. 

Roaming, Ruth Eckman. 66 

Miss Bckman was born in Lancaster, Pa., 1903. Ed- 
ucated at Stevens High School, and Millersville Nor- 
mal School. Teacher, Home, Lancaster, Pa. 

THE MASONIC HOME JOURNAL, Louis- 
ville, Ky. 

My Brother and I, H. H. Fuson 75 

THE MAUD MONITOR, Maud, Okla. 
The Storm Sprite, Virginia Smythe Nolen. . 103 

THE MILL VALLEY RECORD, Mill VaUey, 
California. 

Lincoln, Joan Woodward. . .' -31 

Old Age.in..overty, C. D. Dam* . ... . ... .... : 14 

126 



To a Butterfly, Lynas Clyde Seal 95 

Mr. Seal has published a number, of books of his 
poems. His poems are widely copied and have re- 
ceived very flattering reviews in many widely dis- 
tributed papers. Home, Columbus, Indiana. 

To Dreamers, Louis Leon De Jean 63 

To Mother, Harry Noyes Pratt ,89 

Mr. Pratt was born in River Falls, Wis., 1879. Edi- 
tor of the Overland Monthly, .San Francisco, Calif. 
Author of "Hill Trails and Open Sky." Home, Ala- 
meda, California. 

THE MILWAUKEE SENTINEL, Milwaukee, 

Wisconsin. 
Master of His Destiny, Peter Fandel 99 

Mr. Fandel was born in Aedhternach, Luxembourg, 
1859, and came to America in 1871. Salesman, play- 
wright and dramatic critic. Home, St. Paul, Minn. 

THE MONTGOMERY ADVERTISER, Mont- 
gomery, Alabama. 
The Shining Story, Mary Tarver Carrol.. 107 

Born in Enon, Alabama. Homemaker. Officer State 
Federation of Woman's Clubs. Author of "JienewaX' 
Home, Ozark, Alabama. 

THE MORNING OREGONIAN,. Portland, 

Oregon. 
The Pdor House Road, Grace E. Hall 65 

THE NASHVILLE TENNESSEAN, Nashville, 
Tennessee. . .... 

Mars Approaches, Virginia Nelson Farmer. 99 

THE NEW CANAAN ADVERTISER, New 

Canaan, Conn. 
Coma, Ormlle Leonard * 48 

THE NEW FREEDOM, Honolulu, Hawaii. 
Woodrow Wilson, Donald Gillies. 23 

THE NEW YORK HERALD TRIBUNE, New 
York City, N. Y. . . . . 

Mustang, William Rose Benet . . . ... ... 64 

Percy Haughton* Grantland Rice. .-.^. ..... .35 

127 



THE NEW YORK DAILY NEWS, New York 

City, N. Y. 
I Sing My Country, Arthur Sears Henning . 72 

THE NEW YORK SUN, New York City, New 

York- 
Anchorage, Clarissa Brooks Jenks ......... 14 



Clarissa Brooks Jenks (Mrs. C. L. Jenks) was born 
at Adrian, Kansas, 1880. Educated at Midland Col- 
lege, George Washington University, and American 
School of Osteopathy. Home, Worcester, Mass. 

A Thought in Church, Rosette Mercier Mont- 
gomery ............................. 74 

Mrs. Montgomery was born at Washington, Ga. Ed- 
ucated at Mary Baldwin Seminary. Member Authors 
League, Poetry Society, League of American Pen 
Women, D. A. R., U. D. C. Winter residence, Brook- 
lyn, N. Y. Summer residence at Riverside, Conn. 

Back Home, May Williams Ward .......... 58 

Calvin Father and Son, Ruth Mason Rice. 32 

Mrs. Rice is director of "Book and Craft," New 
York. An official in many literary and poetry soci- 
ties. Member of the Poetry Society, and the Authors' 
League. Home, New York City. 

Earth Magic, Helen Ives Gilchrist ......... 12 

Vanitas Vanitatum, Jennifer Stewart ..... 94 

Vases, Nan Terrell Reed ................. 11 

Yellow Bird, Agnes MacCarthy Hickey 40 

THE NEW YORK TIMES, New York City, 
New York. 

A Little Green Lane, Nan Terrett Reed ---- 91 

An Epitaph, Rosette Mercier Montgomery. . 87 
Conflict, S. Omar Barker ................ 77 

In Memoriam, Faith Baldwin ............. 34 

"I Hear It Said," Barbara Young ......... 81 

My Little Town, Hilda- Morris ........... 10 

Sea Devils, Violet McDougal ............. 108 

Sea Gull, Mary Siegrist ....... . ............ 115 

Born in Johnstown, Pa. Educated in Millersvflle 
State Normal Teachers' College, Columbia University, 
Art Editor. Home, New York City. , ,...". 



The Old Trapper's Tale, Vilda Sauvage 
Owens 10 

Mrs, Owens was born in Wales. Her early educa- 
tion was in London. Graduate Vassar College, class 
of 1900. Wife of a banker. Interests are music, home 
and poetry. Home, Courtland, N, T. 

The What-Not, Mary Folwell Hoisington ... 17 
Unhaste, Mary Siegrist 112 

THE NEW YORK WORLD, New York City, 
New York. 

Woodrow Wilson, Marguerite Mooers Mar- 
shall 26 

Woodrow Wilson, Rosette Mercier Montgom- 
ery 25 

THE NORFOLK LANDMARK, Norfolk, Va. 
Poem, Edwin Carlisle Litsey, . 61 

THE OAKLAND TRIBUNE, Oakland, Calif. 
The Riddle of the Sphinx, Selina Burston. .100 

To the Figure On My Mantel, Addison B. 
Schuster 76 

Mr. Schuster was born in Rockford, 111. Literary 
editor The Oakland Tribune. Has just finished his 
first 1,000 daily short stories for the George Matthew 
Adams, and Bell Syndicates. Home, Berkeley, Calif. 

THE OKLAHOMAN, Oklahoma City, Okla. 
The Oil Fire, Violet McDougal 88 

Miss McDougal is Poet Laureate of Oklahoma. Her 
home is in Sapulpa, Okla. 

THE OKLAHOMA MASON, McAIester, Okla. 
My Garden, Annette Blackburn Ehler 109 

THE PHILADELPHIA BULLETIN, Phila- 
delphia, Pa. 
Barberry-Red, Anne M. Robinson 67 

Memories of Roosevelt, Washington Van 
Dusen * 38 

Mr. Van Dusen is Chief Clerk United Gas Improve- 
ment Co. Author "Songs of a Ufe and Love.'* Home, 
Philadelphia, Pa. 

129 



THE PITTSBURGH OBSERVER, Pittsburgh, 

Pennsylvania. 
Wild Verbenas, Marie Tello Phillips 45 

Marie Tello Phillips has made an enviable record 
as a poet, beginning- her writing in 1918 she has had 
poems published in the leading poetry journals. Her 
poems have been in all of the six annual editions of 
"The Anthology of Newspaper Verse,'* in Mason's 
"Some Pittsburgh Memories," "A Wreath to Edwin 
Markham," a Bookfellow book, and in "Duffee's 
Whispering Leaves Anthology." Her "Book of Verses" 
has met with a kind reception. She holds office in 
many leading literary associations, poetry societies, 
etc. Home, Pittsburgh, Pa. 

THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN NEWS, Denver, 

Colorado. 

The Old Maps to Oregon, Thomas Hornsby 
Ferril 60 

Mr. Ferril was born in Denver, 1896. A. B. Colo- 
rado College. Dramatic editor. Home, Denver, Colo. 

The Resurrection of Denver Dan, John C. 
Wright 79 

THE SALT LAKE TRIBUNE, Salt Lake City, 
Utah. 

In Memory of Woodrow Wilson, Mrs. Clif- 
ford Brooks 19 

To the First Lady, Edith Cherrington 36 

THE SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE, San 

Francisco, Calif. 
Flag of Ours, Anna Blake Mezquida. ... 50 

Mrs. Mezquida was born in San Francisco. Author 
of "A-Gypsying." Poet. Home, San Francisco, Calif. 

THE SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER, San 
Francisco, California. 

To My Mother, Miriam Allen de Ford 92 

Miriam Allen de Ford was born in Philadelphia, Pa. 
Educated at Wellesley College, Temple University, 
and University of Pennsylvania. Press correspondent. 
Home, San Francisco, Calif. 

THE SANTA ANA DAILY REGISTER, Santa 
Ana, California. 

The Eucalyptus Fire, Beubth May 45 

130 



THE SANTA ROSA REPUBLICAN, Santa 

Rosa, California. 
Yuletide Echoings, Add Kyle Lynch 93 

Author of "Luther Burbank, Plant lx>ver and Citi- 
zen." Home, Healdsburg, Calif. 

THE SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN, Spring- 
field, Mass. 

Ashes, Millicent Davis Dilley 85 

Candle Glow, Florence Van Fleet Lyman. . . 90 

Heart of Mine, Edward Gruse 100 

Ode On the Death of Woodrow Wilson, Eliz- 
abeth McCausland 19 

Prayer, Arthur Wilson Eddy 83 

Songs to Ghosts, Edward Richards 116 

The Apparition, Arthur Goodenough . . 93 

Woodrow Wilson Arisen, Janet Bolton 27 

THE SAULT SAINT MARIE DAILY STAR, 

Sault Saint Marie, Mich. 
Today in Flanders, Mary Davis Reed. ; 43 

THE SIOUX CITY JOURNAL, Sioux City, 

Iowa. 
I Love Minorities, Will Chamberlain 96 

Mr. Chamberlain was an early settler of South Da- 
kota. Author "Songs of the Sioux." Teacher and 
writer. Columnist and poet. Home, Yankton, S. D. 

At the Grave of a Babe, Will Chamberlain. . 58 

THE ST. LOUIS, GLOBE-DEMOCRAT, St. 

Louis, Mo. 
At the Odeon, Jane Francis Winn. 78 

Literary editor The Globe-Democrat 

THE TRADESMAN, Lansing, Mich. 
Lily of the Valley, Charles A. Heath 41 

Mr Heath was born in Stockbridge, Mass., I860. 
Graduate Williams College, 1S82. Trustee Chicago 
Academy of Sciences. Trustee McCormack Theolog- 
ical Seminary. Trustee First Presbyterian Church, 
Chicago. Member University Club. Secretary Class 
of 1882 Williams College. Vice President Michigan 
Society. Seed merchant 1882 to 1922. Home, Chicago, 
Illinois. 

131 



THE TIMES-PICAYUNE, New Orleans, La. 

The Ox-Team, Marshall Louis Mertens 110 

Rememberance, Roy Valentine 110 

THE TORONTO SUNDAY WORLD, Toronto, 

Ontario, 

Deerhurst In the Highlands of Ontario, 
Milfard S. Burns 18 

Mr. Burns was barn in Buffalo, N. Y., 1854. He is 
president of Padburn, Inc., wholesale lumber. Warden 
Protestant Episcopal Church. Mr. Burns spends his 
summers at his lodge at Deerhurst. Home, Buffalo, 
New York. 

THE VIRGINIAN PILOT, Lynchburg, Va. 
Symbols, John Richard Morel&nd 39 

Mr. Moreland was born in Norfolk, Va., 1880. Cash- 
ier City Water Department, Norfolk. Editor "Lyric," 
a magazine, of verse. Author of "Red Poppies in the 
Wheat." Home, Norfolk, Va, 



132 



I acknowledge the receipt of the following 
Books of Poems by Press Poets published during 
1924: 

DUFFEE, MAY M. Whispering Leaves Anthol- 
ogy. Washington C. EL, Ohio. The Author, 
1924. 

EMMONS, ELISE. The Parliament of Birds and 
Other Poems. Boston : The Christopher Pub- 
lishing House, 1924. 

FISHEK, ARTHUR WILLIAM. Niagara and 
Other Poems. Boston : The Christopher Pub- 
lishing House, 1924. 

SEAL, LYNAS CLYDE. Garden of Song. Bos- 
ton : The Christopher Publishing House, 1924. 

WILLIAMS, GEORGIA RUSS. Red-Woods. 
Ferndale, Calif. The Author, 1924. 



133 



THE ANTHOLOGY 

THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEWSPAPER VERSE FOR 1919. 
Contains 143 poems from 69 newspapers by 
78 authors. 

THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEWSPAPER VERSE FOR 1920. 
Contains 175 poems from 71 newspapers by 
130 authors. 

THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEWSPAPER VERSE FOR 1921. 
Contains 149 poems from 76 newspapers by 
127 Authors. 

THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEWSPAPER VERSE FOR 1922. 
Contains 148 poems from 65 newspapers by 
99 authors. 

THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEWSPAPER VERSE FOR 1923. 
Contains 215 poems from 105 newspapers by 
180 authors. 

THE ANTHOLOGY OF NEWSPAPER VERSE FOR 1924. 
Contains 151 poems from 79 newspapers by 
130 authors. 



135 




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